(LIBRARY  | 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO      I 


LEATHERFACE 


BARONESS  ORCZY 


By      BARONESS       ORCZY 


THE  BRONZE  EAGLE 
A  BRIDE  OF  THE  PLAINS 
THE  LAUGHING  CAVALIER 
"UNTO  CAESAR" 
EL  DORADO 
MEADOWSWEET 
THE  NOBLE  ROGUE 
THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN 
PETTICOAT  RULE 


GEORGE    H.    DORAN    COMPANY 
NEW   YORK 


LEATHERFACE 

A   TALE  OF  OLD  FLANDERS 


feY 

BARONESS  ORCZY 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  SCARLET  PIMPERNEL" 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE   H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPTBIGHT,  1916, 

BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE:  MONS,  SEPTEMBER,  1572 9 

BOOK  ONE:    BRUSSELS 

CHAPTER 

I.    THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL 17 

II.    THE  SUBJECT  RACE 47 

III.  THE  RULING  CASTE 66 

IV.  JUSTICE 98 

V.    VENGEANCE 118 

BOOK  TWO:    DENDERMONDE 

VI.    A  STRANGER  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND 131 

VII.    THE  REBELS 145 

VIII.    THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  • 158 

IX.    A  DIVIDED  DUTY   ' 182 

X.    ENEMIES 197 

XI.    UTTER  LONELINESS 222 

BOOK  THREE:    GHENT 

XII.    REPRISALS     . 239 

XIII.  MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG 250 

XIV.  THE  TYRANTS 274 

XV.    Two  PICTURES 286 

XVI.    THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE 292 

XVII.    TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY 329 

XVIII.    THE  LAST  STAND 352 

XIX.    THE  HOUR  OF  VICTORY 381 

EPILOGUE 39° 

5 


PROLOGUE:  MONS,  SEPTEMBER,  1572 


PROLOGUE 

MONS:  SEPTEMBER,  1572 

IT  lacked  two  hours  before  the  dawn  on  this  sultry  night 
early  in  September.  The  crescent  moon  had  long  ago 
sunk  behind  a  bank  of  clouds  in  the  west,  and  not  a 
sound  stirred  the  low-lying  land  around  the  besieged  city. 

To  the  south  the  bivouac  fires  of  Alva's  camp  had  died 
out  one  by  one,  and  here  the  measured  tread  of  the  sentinels 
on  their  beat  alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  night.  To 
the  north,  where  valorous  Orange  with  a  handful  of  men 
— undisciplined,  unpaid  and  rebellious — vainly  tried  to  pro- 
voke his  powerful  foe  into  a  pitched  battle,  relying  on  God 
for  the  result,  there  was  greater  silence  still.  The  sentinels 
— wearied  and  indifferent — had  dropped  to  sleep  at  their 
post :  the  troops,  already  mutinous,  only  held  to  their  duty 
by  the  powerful  personality  of  the  Prince,  slept  as  soundly 
as  total  indifference  to  the  cause  for  which  they  were  paid 
to  fight  could  possibly  allow. 

In  his  tent  even  Orange — tired  out  with  ceaseless  watch- 
ing— had  gone  to  rest.  His  guards  were  in  a  profound 
sleep. 

Then  it  was  that  from  the  south  there  came  a  stir,  and 
from  Alva's  entrenchments  waves  of  something  alive  that 
breathed  in  the  darkness  of  the  night  were  set  in  motion, 
like  when  the  sea  rolls  inwards  to  the  shore. 

Whispered  words  set  this  living  mass  on  its  way,  and 
anon  it  was  crawling  along — swiftly  and  silently — more 
silently  than  incoming  waves  on  a  flat  shore — on  and  on, 

9 


10  PROLOGUE 

always  northwards  in  the  direction  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange's  camp,  like  some  gigantic  snake  that  creeps  with 
belly  close  to  the  ground. 

"Don  Ramon/'  whispered  a  voice  in  the  darkness,  "let 
Captain  Romero  deal  with  the  sentinels  and  lead  the  sur- 
prise attack,  whilst  you  yourself  make  straight  for  the 
Prince's  tent;  overpower  his  guard  first,  then  seize  his 
person.  Two  hundred  ducats  will  be  your  reward,  re- 
member, if  you  bring  Orange  back  here — a  prisoner — • 
and  a  ducat  for  each  of  your  men." 

These  were  the  orders  and  don  Ramon  de  Linea  sped 
forward  with  six  hundred  arquebusiers — all  picked  men 
• — they  wore  their  shirts  over  their  armour,  so  that  in  the 
melee  which  was  to  come  they  might  recognise  one  another 
in  the  gloom. 

Less  than  a  league  of  flat  pasture  land  lay  between  Alva's 
entrenchments  at  St.  Florian  near  the  gates  of  beleaguered 
Mons,  and  Orange's  camp  at  Hermigny.  But  at  St.  Florian 
men  stirred  and  planned  and  threatened,  whilst  at  Her- 
migny even  the  sentinels  slept.  Noble-hearted  Orange  had 
raised  the  standard  of  revolt  against  the  most  execrable 
oppression  of  an  entire  people  which  the  world  has  ever 
known — and  he  could  not  get  more  than  a  handful  of 
patriots  to  fight  for  their  own  freedom  against  the  tyranny 
and  the  might  of  Spain,  whilst  mercenary  troops  were 
left  to  guard  the  precious  life  of  the  indomitable  champion 
of  religious  and  civil  liberties. 

The  moving  mass  of  de  Linea's  arquebusiers  had  covered 
half  a  league  of  the  intervening  ground;  their  white  shirts 
only  just  distinguishable  in  the  gloom  made  them  look 
like  ghosts;  only  another  half-league — less  perhaps — 
separated  them  from  their  goal,  and  still  no  one  stirred 
in  Orange's  camp.  Then  it  was  that  something  roused  the 


PROLOGUE  11 

sentinels  from  their  sleep.  A  rough  hand  shook  first 
one  then  the  others  by  the  shoulder,  and  out  of  the  gloom 
a  peremptory  voice  whispered  hurriedly : 

"Quick!  awake!  sound  the  alarm!  An  encamisada  is 
upon  you.  You  will  all  be  murdered  in  your  sleep." 

And  even  before  the  drowsy  sentinels  had  time  to  rouse 
themselves  or  to  rub  their  eyes,  the  same  rough  hand  had 
shaken  the  Prince's  guard,  the  same  peremptory  voice  had 
called:  "Awake!  the  Spaniards  are  upon  you!" 

In  the  Prince's  tent  a  faint  light  was  glimmering.  He 
himself  was  lying  fully  dressed  and  armed  upon  a  couch. 
At  sound  of  the  voice,  of  his  guards  stirring,  of  the  noise 
and  bustle  of  a  wakening  camp,  he  sat  up  just  in  time 
to  see  a  tall  figure  in  the  entrance  of  his  tent. 

The  feeble  light  threw  but  into  a  dim  relief  this  tall 
figure  of  a  man,  clad  in  dark,  shapeless  woollen  clothes 
wearing  a  hood  of  the  same  dark  stuff  over  his  head  and 
a  leather  mask  over  his  face. 

"Leatherface !"  exclaimed  the  Prince  as  he  jumped  to 
his  feet.  "What  is  it?" 

"A  night  attack,"  replied  a  muffled  voice  behind  the 
mask.  "Six  hundred  arquebusiers — they  are  but  half  a 
league  away! — I  would  have  been  here  sooner  only  the 
night  is  so  infernally  dark,  I  caught  my  foot  in  a  rabbit- 
hole  and  nearly  broke  my  ankle — I  am  as  lame  as  a  Jew's 
horse  .  .  .  but  still  in  time,"  he  added  as  he  hastily  helped 
the  Prince  to  adjust  his  armour  and  straighten  out  his 
clothes. 

The  camp  was  alive  now  with  call  to  arms  and  rattle  of 
steel,  horses  snorting  and  words  of  command  flying  to  and 
fro.  Don  Ramon  de  Linea,  a  quarter  of  a  league  away, 
heard  these  signs  of  troops  well  on  the  alert  and  he  knew 
that  the  surprise  attack  had  failed.  Six  hundred  arque- 


12  PROLOGUE 

busiers — though  they  be  picked  men — were  not  sufficient 
for  a  formal  attack  on  the  Prince  of  Orange's  entire 
cavalry.  Even  mercenary  and  undisciplined  troops  will 
fight  valiantly  when  their  lives  depend  upon  their  valour. 
De  Linea  thought  it  best  to  give  the  order  to  return  to 
camp. 

And  the  waves  of  living  men  which  had  been  set  in 
motion  an  hour  ago,  now  swiftly  and  silently  went  back 
the  way  they  came.  Don  Ramon  when  he  came  once  more 
in  the  camp  at  St.  Florian  and  in  the  presence  of  Alva's 
captain-in-chief,  had  to  report  the  failure  of  the  night 
attack  which  had  been  so  admirably  planned. 

"The  whole  camp  at  Hermigny  was  astir,"  he  said  as 
he  chawed  the  ends  of  his  heavy  moustache,  for  he  was 
sorely  disappointed.  "I  could  not  risk  an  attack  under  those 
conditions.  Our  only  chance  of  winning  was  by  surprise." 

"Who  gave  the  alarm?"  queried  don  Frederic  de 
Toledo,  who  took  no  pains  to  smother  the  curses  that  rose 
to  his  lips, 

"The  devil,  I  suppose,"  growled  don  Ramon  de  Linea 
savagely 

And  out  at  Hermigny — in  Orange's  tent — the  man  who 
was  called  Leather  face  was  preparing  to  go  as  quietly  and 
mysteriously  as  he  had  come. 

"They  won't  be  on  you,  Monseigneur,"  he  said,  "now 
that  they  know  your  troops  are  astir.  But  if  I  were  you/* 
he  added  grimly,  "1  would  have  every  one  of  those  sentinels 
shot  at  dawn.  They  were  all  of  them  fast  asleep  when 
I  arrived." 

He  gave  the  military  salute  and  would  have  turned  to 
go  without  another  word  but  that  the  Prince  caught  him 
peremptorily  by  the,  arm; 


PROLOGUE  13 

"In  the  meanwhile,  Messire,  how  shall  I  thank  you 
again?"  he  asked. 

"By  guarding  your  precious  life,  Monseigneur,"  replied 
the  man  simply.  "The  cause  of  freedom  in  the  Low 
Countries  would  never  survive  your  loss." 

"Well!"  retorted  the  Prince  of  Orange  with  a  winning 
smile,  "if  that  be  so,  then  the  cause  of  our  freedom  owes 
as  much  to  you  as  it  does  to  me.  Is  it  the  tenth  time — 
or  the  twelfth — that  you  have  saved  my  life?" 

"Since  you  will  not  let  me  fight  with  you  .  .  ." 

"I'll  let  you  do  anything  you  wish,  Messire,  for  you 
would  be  as  fine  a  soldier  as  you  are  a  loyal  friend.  But 
are  you  not  content  with  the  splendid  services  which  you 
are  rendering  to  us  now?  Putting  aside  mine  own  life — • 
which  mayhap  is  not  worthless — how  many  times  has 
your  warning  saved  mine  and  my  brother's  troops  from 
surprise  attacks?  How  many  times  have  Noircarmes'  or 
don  Frederic's  urgent  appeals  for  reinforcements  failed, 
through  your  intervention,  to  reach  the  Duke  of  Alva  until 
our  own  troops  were  able  to  rally?  Ah,  Messire,  believe 
me!  God  Himself  has  chosen  you  for  this  work!" 

"The  work  of  a  spy,  Monseigneur,"  said  the  other  not 
without  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

"Nay!  if  you  call  yourself  a  spy,  Messire,  then  shall 
the  name  of  'spy'  be  henceforth  a  name  of  glory  to  its 
wearer,  synonymous  with  the  loftiest  patriotism  and 
noblest  self-sacrifice." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  the  man  with  the  mask,  who 
bent  his  tall  figure  over  it  in  dutiful  respect. 

"You  see  how  well  I  keep  to  my  share  of  the  compact, 
Messire.  Never  once — even  whilst  we  were  alone — hath 
your  name  escaped  my  lips." 

"For  which  act  of  graciousness,  Monseigneur,  I  do  offer 


14  PROLOGUE 

you  my  humble  thanks.  May  God  guard  your  Highness 
through  every  peril!  The  cause  of  justice  and  of  liberty 
rests  in  your  hands." 

After  another  deeply  respectful  bow  he  finally  turned  to 
go.  He  had  reached  the  entrance  of  the  tent  when  once 
more  the  Prince  spoke  to  him. 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again — Leather  face?"  he  asked 
cheerily. 

"When  your  Highness'  precious  life  or  the  safety  of  your 
army  are  in  danger,"  replied  the  man. 

"God  reward  you!"  murmured  Orange  fervently  as  the 
man  with  the  mask  disappeared  into  the  night. 


BOOK  ONE:  BRUSSELS 


BOOK  ONE:  BRUSSELS 
CHAPTER  I 


LESS  than  a  month  later,  and  tyranny  is  once  more  tri- 
umphant. Mons  has  capitulated,  Orange  has  withdrawn 
his  handful  of  mutinous  troops  into  Holland,  Valenciennes 
has  been  destroyed  and  Mechlin — beautiful,  gracious,  au- 
gust Mechlin — with  her  cathedrals  and  her  trade-halls, 
her  ancient  monuments  of  art  and  civilisation  has  been 
given  over  for  three  days  to  the  lust  and  rapine  of  Spanish 
soldiery! 

Three  whole  days!  E'en  now  we  think  on  those  days 
and  shudder — shudder  at  what  we  know,  at  what  the 
chroniclers  have  told  us,  the  sacking  of  churches,  the 
pillaging  of  monasteries,  the  massacre  of  peaceful,  harm- 
less citizens! 

Three  whole  days  during  which  the  worst  demons  that 
infest  hell  itself,  the  worst  demons  that  inspire  the  hideous 
passions  of  men — greed,  revenge  and  cruelty — were  let 
loose  upon  the  stately  city  whose  sole  offence  had  been 
that  she  had  for  twenty- four  hours  harboured  Orange  and 
his  troops  within  her  gates  and  closed  them  against  the 
tyrant's  soldiery! 

Less  than  a  month  and  Orange  is  a  fugitive,  and  all  the 
bright  hopes  for  the  cause  of  religious  and  civil  freedom 

17 


18  LEATHERFACE 

are  once  more  dashed  to  the  ground.  It  seems  as  if  God 
Himself  hath  set  His  face  against  the  holy  cause!  Mons 
has  fallen  and  Mechlin  is  reduced  to  ashes,  and  over  across 
the  borders  the  King  of  France  has  caused  ten  thousand 
of  his  subjects  to  be  massacred — one  holy  day,  the  feast 
of  St.  Bartholomew — ten  thousand  of  them! — just  be- 
cause their  religious  beliefs  did  not  coincide  with  his  own. 
The  appalling  news  drove  Orange  and  his  small  army  to 
flight — he  had  reckoned  on  help  from  the  King  of  France 
— instead  of  that  promised  help  the  news  of  the  massacre 
of  ten  thousand  Protestants!  Catholic  Europe  was  horror- 
stricken  at  the  crime  committed  in  the  name  of  religion; 
but  in  the  Low  Countries,  Spanish  tyranny  had  scored  a 
victory — the  ignoble  Duke  of  Alva  triumphed  and  the 
cause  of  freedom  in  Flanders  and  Hainault  and  Brabant 
received  a  blow  from  which  it  did  not  again  recover  for 
over  three  hundred  years! 


n 


Outwardly  the  house  where  the  Duke  of  Alva  lodged  in 
Brussels  was  not  different  to  many  of  the  same  size  in 
the  city.  It  was  built  of  red  brick  with  stone  base  and 
finely-carved  cornice,  and  had  a  high  slate  roof  with 
picturesque  dormer  windows  therein.  The  windows  on 
the  street  level  were  solidly  grilled  and  were  ornamented 
with  richly-carved  pediments,  as  was  the  massive  door- 
way too.  The  door  itself  was  of  heavy  oak,  and  above 
it  there  was  a  beautifully  wrought  niche  which  held  a 
statue  of  the  Virgin. 

On  the  whole  it  looked  a  well-constructed,  solid  and 
roomy  house,  and  Mme.  de  Jassy,  its  owner,  had  placed  it 
at  the  disposal  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor  when  first 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  19 

he  arrived  in  Brussels,  and  he  had  occupied  it  ever  since. 
The  idler  as  he  strolled  past  the  house  would  hardly  pause 
to  look  at  it,  if  he  did  not  happen  to  know  that  behind 
those  brick  walls  and  grilled  windows  a  work  of  oppres- 
sion more  heinous  than  this  world  had  ever  known  before, 
was  being  planned  and  carried  on  by  a  set  of  cruel  and 
execrable  tyrants  against  an  independent  country  and  a 
freedom-loving  people. 

Here  in  the  dining-hall  the  Duke  of  Alva  would  preside 
at  the  meetings  of  the  Grand  Council — the  Council  of 
Blood — sitting  in  a  high-backed  chair  which  had  the  arms 
of  Spain  emblazoned  upon  it.  Juan  de  Vargas  and  Alberic 
del  Rio  usually  sat  to  right  and  left  of  him.  Del  Rio — 
indolent  and  yielding — a  mere  tool  for  the  carrying  out 
of  every  outrage,  every  infamy  which  the  fiendish  brain 
of  those  tyrants  could  devise  wherewith  to  crush  the  in- 
domitable spirit  of  a  proud  nation  jealous  of  its  honour 
and  of  its  liberties:  and  de  Vargas — Alva's  double  and 
worthy  lieutenant — no  tool  he,  but  a  terrible  reality,  active 
and  resourceful  in  the  invention  of  new  forms  of  tyranny, 
new  fetters  for  the  curbing  of  stiff-necked  Flemish  and 
Dutch  burghers,  new  methods  for  wringing  rivers  of  gold 
out  of  a  living  stream  of  tears  and  blood. 

De  Vargas! — the  very  name  stinks  in  the  nostrils  of 
honest  men  even  after  the  lapse  of  centuries ! — It  conjures 
up  the  hideous  image  of  a  human  bloodhound — lean  and 
sallow  of  visage,  with  drooping,  heavy-lidded  eyes  and 
flaccid  mouth,  a  mouth  that  sneered  and  jested  when  men, 
women  and  children  were  tortured  and  butchered,  eyes  that 
gloated  at  sight  of  stake  and  scaffold  and  gibbet — and 
within  the  inner  man,  a  mind  intent  on  the  science  of 
murder  and  rapine  and  bloodshed. 


20  LEATHERFACE 

Alva  the  will  that  commanded!  Vargas  the  brain  that 
devised!  Del  Rio  the  hand  that  accomplished! 

Men  sent  by  Philip  II.  of  Spain,  the  most  fanatical 
tyrant  the  world  has  ever  known,  to  establish  the  abhor- 
rent methods  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition  in  the  Low 
Countries  in  order  to  consolidate  Spanish  rule  there  and 
wrest  from  prosperous  Flanders  and  Brabant  and  Hain- 
ault,  from  Holland  and  the  Dutch  provinces  enough  gold  to 
irrigate  the  thirsty  soil  of  Spain.  "The  river  of  gold  which 
will  flow  from  the  Netherlands  to  Madrid  shall  be  a  yard 
deep!"  so  had  Alva  boasted  when  his  infamous  master 
sent  him  to  quell  the  revolt  which  had  noble-hearted  Orange 
for  its  leader — a  revolt  born  of  righteous  indignation  and 
an  unconquerable  love  of  freedom  and  of  justice. 

To  mould  the  Netherlands  into  abject  vassals  of  Spain, 
to  break  their  independence  of  spirit  by  terrorism  and  by 
outrage,  to  force  Spanish  ideas,  Spanish  culture,  Spanish 
manners,  Spanish  religion  upon  these  people  of  the  North 
who  loathed  tyranny  and  worshipped  their  ancient  charters 
and  privileges,  that  was  the  task  which  the  Duke  of  Alva 
set  himself  to  do — a  task  for  which  he  needed  the  help  of 
men  as  tyrannical  and  unscrupulous  as  himself. 

Granvelle  had  begun  the  work,  Alva  was  completing  it! 
The  stake,  the  scaffold,  the  gibbet  for  all  who  had  one 
thought  of  justice,  one  desire  for  freedom.  Mons  razed 
to  the  ground,  Valenciennes  a  heap  of  ruins  and  ashes, 
Mechlin  a  hecatomb.  Men,  women  and  children  outraged 
and  murdered!  Whole  families  put  to  the  torture 
to  wring  gold  from  unwilling  givers!  churches  de- 
stroyed! monasteries  ransacked! 

That  was  the  work  of  the  Grand  Council — the  odious 
Council  of  Blood,  the  members  of  which  have  put  to  shame 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  31 

the  very  name  of  religion,  for  they  dared  to  pretend  that 
they  acted  in  its  name, 

Alva!  de  Vargas!  del  Rio!  A  trinity  of  fiends  whose 
deeds  would  shame  the  demons  in  hell!  But  there  were 
others  too,  and,  O  ye  gods!  were  they  not  infinitely  more 
vile,  since  their  hands  reeked  with  the  blood  of  their  own 
kith  and  kin?  Alva  and  his  two  bloodhounds  were 
strangers  in  a  strange  land,  owing  allegiance  to  Spain  alone 
— but  Councillor  Hessels  sat  on  this  same  infamous  board, 
and  he  was  a  patrician  of  Brabant,  And  there  was  Pierre 
Arsens,  president  of  Artois,  there  was  de  Berlaymont  and 
Viglius  and  Hopper — gentlemen  (save  the  mark!)  and 
burghers  of  Flanders  or  Hainault  or  the  Dutch  provinces! 
— and  who  can  name  such  creatures  without  a  shudder  of 
loathing? 


in 


As  for  don  Ramon  de  Linea,  he  was  just  the  usual  type 
of  Spanish  soldier — a  grandee  of  Spain,  direct  descendant 
of  the  Cid,  so  he  averred,  yet  disdained  to  prove  it.  For 
in  him  there  was  no  sense  of  chivalry — just  personal 
bravery  and  no  more — the  same  kind  of  bravery  you  would 
meet  in  a  tiger  or  a  jaguar.  In  truth  there  was  much  in 
common  between  don  Ramon  and  the  wild  feline  tribeg 
that  devastate  the  deserts:  he  had  the  sinuous  move- 
ments, the  languorous  gestures  of  those  creatures,  and  his 
eyes — dark  and  velvety  at  times,  at  others  almost  of  an 
orange  tint — had  all  the  cruel  glitter  which  comes  into  the 
eyes  of  the  leopard  when  he  is  out  to  kill.  Otherwise 
don  Ramon  was  a  fine-looking  man,  dark-skinned  and  dark- 
eyed,  a  son  of  the  South,  with  all  those  cajoling  ways  about 
him  which  please  and  so  often  deceive  the  women. 


22  LEATHERFACE 

He  it  was  who  had  been  in  command  at  Mechlin — 
entrusted  by  General  de  Noircarmes  with  the  hideous  task 
of  destroying  the  stately  city — and  he  had  done  it  with  a 
will.  Overproud  of  his  achievements  he  had  obtained  leave 
to  make  personal  report  of  them  to  the  Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor,  and  thus  it  was  that  on  this  2nd  day  of  October, 
1572,  he  was  present  at  the  council  board,  talking  with 
easy  grace  and  no  little  satisfaction  of  all  that  he  had  done : 
of  the  churches  which  he  had  razed  to  the  ground,  the 
houses  which  he  had  sacked,  of  the  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren whom  he  had  turned  out  naked  and  starving  into  the 
streets. 

"We  laboured  hard  for  three  days,"  he  said,  "and  the 
troops  worked  with  a  will,  for  there  were  heavy  arrears 
of  pay  due  to  them  and  we  told  them  to  make  up  those 
arrears  in  Mechlin,  since  they  wouldn't  get  any  money  from 
headquarters.  Oh!  Mechlin  got  all  that  she  deserved  I 
Her  accursed  citizens  can  now  repent  at  leisure  of  their 
haste  in  harbouring  Orange  and  his  rebel  troops  1" 

His  voice  was  deep  and  mellow  and  even  the  guttural 
Spanish  consonants  sounded  quite  soft  when  he  spoke 
them.  Through  half-closed  lids  his  glance  swept  from 
time  to  time  over  the  eager  faces  around  the  board,  and 
his  slender  hands  emphasised  the  hideous  narrative  with 
a  few  graceful  gestures.  He  looked  just  the  true  type  of 
grand  seigneur  telling  a  tale  of  mild  adventure  and  of 
sport,  and  now  and  then  he  laughed  displaying  his  teeth, 
sharp  and  white  like  the  fangs  of  a  leopard's  cub. 

No  one  interrupted  him,  and  Councillor  Hessels  fell 
gradually — as  was  his  wont — into  a  gentle  doze  from  which 
he  roused  himself  now  and  again  in  order  to  murmur 
drowsily :  "To  the  gallows  with  them  all !" 

Viglius  and  Hopper  and  de  Berlaymont  tried  hard  to 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  23 

repress  a  shudder.  They  were  slaves  of  Spain,  these  gen- 
tlemen of  the  Low  Countries,  but  not  Spanish  born,  and 
were  not  accustomed  from  earliest  childhood  to  listen — 
not  only  unmoved  but  with  a  certain  measure  of  delight — 
to  these  tales  of  horror.  But  there  was  nothing  in  what 
don  Ramon  said  of  which  they  disapproved.  They  were 
> — all  of  them — loyal  subjects  of  the  King,  and  the  very 
thought  of  rebellion  was  abhorrent  to  them. 

But  it  was  passing  strange  that  the  Duke  of  Alva  made 
no  comment  on  the  young  captain's  report.  There  he  sat, 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  silent  and  moody,  with  one  bony 
fist  clenched  above  a  letter  which  lay  open  beneath  his 
hand,  and  which  bore  a  large  red  seal  with  the  royal  arms 
of  Spain  impressed  upon  it.  Not  a  word  of  praise  or 
blame  did  he  speak.  His  heavy  brows  were  contracted  in 
a  sullen  frown,  and  his  protruding  eyes  were  veiled  beneath 
the  drooping  lids. 

De  Vargas,  too,  was  silent — de  Vargas  who  loved  to 
gloat  over  such  tales  as  don  Ramon  had  to  tell,  de  Vargas 
who  believed  that  these  rebellious  Low  Countries  could 
only  be  brought  into  subjection  by  such  acts  of  demoniacal 
outrage  as  the  Spanish  soldiery  had  just  perpetrated  in 
Mons  and  in  Mechlin.  He,  too,  appeared  moody  to-day,  and 
the  story  of  sick  women  and  young  children  being  dragged 
out  of  their  beds  and  driven  out  to  perish  in  the  streets 
while  their  homes  were  being  pillaged  and  devastated,  left 
him  taciturn  and  unmoved. 

Don  Ramon  made  vain  pretence  not  to  notice  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor's moodiness,  nor  yet  de  Vargas'  silence, 
but  those  who  knew  him  best — and  de  Vargas  was  among 
these — plainly  saw  that  irritation  had  seized  upon  his 
nerves.  He  was  talking  more  volubly,  and  his  voice  had 
lost  its  smoothness,  whilst  the  languor  of  his  gestures  had 


24  LEATHERFACE 

given  place  to  sharp,  febrile  movements  of  hands  and 
shoulders  which  he  tried  vainly  to  disguise. 

"Our  soldiers,"  he  was  saying  loudly,  "did  not  leave  a 
loaf  of  bread  in  the  bakeries,  or  a  bushel  of  wheat  in  the 
stores  of  Mechlin.  The  rich  citizens  we  hanged  at  the  rate 
of  twenty  a  day,  and  I  drew  orders  for  the  confiscation  of 
their  estates  to  the  benefit  of  our  Most  Gracious  King  and 
suzerain  Lord.  I  tell  you  we  made  quick  work  of  all  the 
rebels :  stone  no  longer  stands  on  stone  in  Mechlin  to-day : 
its  patricians  are  beggars,  its  citizens  are  scattered.  We 
have  put  to  the  torture  and  burned  at  the  stake  those  who 
refused  to  give  us  their  all.  A  month  ago  Mechlin  was 
a  prosperous  city :  she  gave  of  her  wealth  and  of  her  hos- 
pitality to  the  rebel  troops  of  Orange.  To-day  she  and 
her  children  have  ceased  to  be.  Are  you  not  satisfied?" 

He  brought  his  clenched  fist  crashing  down  upon  the 
table :  surely  a  very  unusual  loss  of  restraint  in  a  grandee 
of  Spain :  but  obviously  he  found  it  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  keep  his  temper  under  control,  and  those  dark  eyes 
of  his  were  now  fixed  with  a  kind  of  fierce  resentment  upon 
the  impassive  face  of  the  Duke. 

Councillor  Hessels,  only  half  awake,  reiterated  with 
drowsy  emphasis:  "To  the  gallows  with  them!  Send 
them  all  to  the  gallows!" 

Still  the  Duke  of  Alva  was  silent  and  de  Vargas  did  not 
speak.  Yet  it  was  the  Duke  himself  who  had  given  the 
order  for  the  destruction  of  Mechlin:  "as  a  warning  to 
other  cities,"  he  had  said.  And  now  he  sat  at  the  head 
of  the  table  sullen,  moody  and  frowning,  and  don  Ramon 
felt  an  icy  pang  of  fear  gripping  him  by  the  throat:  the 
thought  that  censure  of  his  conduct  was  brewing  in  the 
Lieutenant-Governor's  mind  caused  him  to  lose  the  last 
vestige  of  self-control,  for  he  knew  that  censure  could 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  25 

have  but  one  sequel — quick  judgment  and  the  headman's 
axe. 

"Are  you  not  satisfied  ?"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "What  more 
did  you  expect?  What  more  ought  we  to  have  done? 
What  other  proof  of  zeal  does  King  Philip  ask  of  me  ?" 

Thus  directly  challenged  the  Duke  raised  his  head  and 
looked  the  young  man  sternly  in  the  face. 

"What  you  have  done,  Messire,"  he  said  slowly — and 
the  cold  glitter  in  his  steely  eyes  held  in  it  more  real  and 
calculating  cruelty  than  the  feline  savagery  of  the  other 
man,  "what  you  have  done  is  good,  but  it  is  not  enough. 
What  use  is  there  in  laying  low  an  entire  city,  when  the 
one  man  whose  personality  holds  the  whole  of  this  abomin- 
able rebellion  together  still  remains  unscathed?  You 
hanged  twenty  noted  citizens  a  day  in  Mechlin,  you  say," 
he  added  with  a  cynical  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "I  would 
gladly  see  every  one  of  them  spared,  so  long  as  Orange's 
head  fell  on  the  scaffold." 

"Orange  has  disbanded  his  army  and  has  fled  almost 
alone  into  Holland,"  said  don  Ramon  sullenly.  "My 
orders  were  to  punish  Mechlin  and  not  to  run  after  the 
Prince  of  Orange." 

"The  order  to  bring  the  Prince  of  Orange  alive  or  dead 
to  Brussels  and  to  me  takes  precedence  of  every  other 
order,  as  you  well  know,  Messire,"  retorted  Alva  roughly. 
"We  decided  on  that  unanimously  at  the  meeting  of  the 
Grand  Council  on  the  day  that  I  sent  Egmont  and  Horn 
to  the  scaffold  and  Orange  refused  to  walk  into  the  trap 
which  I  had  set  for  him." 

"He  always  escapes  from  the  traps  which  are  set  for 
him,"  now  broke  in  de  Vargas  in  his  calm,  even,  expres- 
sionless voice.  "During  the  siege  of  Mons,  according  to 
don  Frederic's  report,  no  fewer  than  six  surprise  night- 


26  LEATHERFACE 

attacks — all  admirably  planned — failed,  because  Orange  ap- 
'peared  to  have  received  timely  warning." 

"Who  should  know  that  better  than  I,  senor?"  queried 
don  Ramon  hotly,  "seeing  that  I  led  most  of  those  attacks 
myself — they  were  splendidly  planned,  our  men  as  silent 
as  ghosts,  the  night  darker  than  hell.  Not  a  word  of  the 
plan  was  breathed  until  I  gave  the  order  to  start.  Yet 
someone  gave  the  alarm.  We  found  Orange's  camp  astir 
— every  time  we  had  to  retire.  Who  but  the  devil  could 
have  given  the  warning?" 

"A  spy  more  astute  than  yourselves,"  quoth  Alva  dryly. 

"Nay!"  here  interposed  del  Rio  blandly,  "I  am  of  the 
same  opinion  as  don  Ramon  de  Linea;  there  is  a  subtle 
agency  at  work  which  appears  to  guard  the  life  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange.  I  myself  was  foiled  many  a  time  when 
I  was  on  his  track — with  Ribeiras  who  wields  a  dagger 
in  the  dark  more  deftly  than  any  man  I  know.  I  also 
employed  Loronzo,  who  graduated  in  Venice  in  the  art 
of  poisons,  but  invariably  the  Prince  slipped  through  our 
fingers  just  as  if  he  had  been  put  on  his  guard  by  some 
mysterious  emissary." 

"The  loyalists  in  Flanders,"  quoth  President  Viglius 
under  his  breath,  "declare  that  the  agency  which  works 
for  the  safety  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  is  a  supernatural 
one.  They  speak  of  a  tall,  manlike  figure  whose  face  is 
hidden  by  a  mask,  and  who  invariably  appears  whenever 
the  Prince  of  Orange's  life  is  in  danger.  Some  people 
call  this  mysterious  being  'Leather face,'  but  no  one  seems 
actually  to  have  seen  him.  It  sounds  as  if  he  were  truly 
an  emissary  of  the  devil." 

And  as  the  President  spoke,  a  strange  silence  fell  around 
the  council  board :  every  cheek  had  become  pale,  every  lip 
quivered.  De  Vargas  made  a  quick  sign  of  the  Cross  over 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  27 

his  chest :  Alva  drew  a  small  medal  from  the  inside  of  his 
doublet  and  kissed  it  devoutly.  These  men  who  talked 
airily  of  rapine  and  of  violence  perpetrated  against  inno- 
cent people,  who  gloated  over  torture  and  misery  which 
they  loved  to  inflict,  were  held  in  the  cold  grip  of  super- 
stitious fear,  and  their  trembling  lips  uttered  abject  prayers 
for  mercy  to  the  God  whom  they  outraged  by  every  act  of 
their  infamous  lives. 


IV 


When  the  Duke  of  Alva  spoke  again,  his  voice  was  still 
unsteady:  "Devil  or  no  devil,"  he  said  with  an  attempt 
at  dignified  composure,  "His  majesty's  latest  orders  are 
quite  peremptory.  He  desires  the  death  of  Orange.  He 
will  have  no  more  cities  destroyed,  no  more  wholesale 
massacres  until  that  great  object  is  attained.  Pressure  has 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  him:  the  Emperor,  it  seems, 
has  spoken  authoritatively,  and  with  no  uncertain  voice. 
It  seems  that  the  destruction  of  Flemish  cities  is  abhorrent 
to  the  rest  of  Europe." 

"Rebel  cities!"  ejaculated  de  Berlaymont  hotly. 

"Aye !  we  know  well  enough  that  they  are  rebel  cities," 
quoth  Alva  fiercely,  "but  what  can  we  do,  when  a  milk- 
livered  weakling  wears  the  Imperial  crown  ?  Our  gracious 
King  himself  dares  not  disregard  the  Emperor's  protests 
— and  in  his  last  letter  to  me  he  commands  that  we  should 
hold  our  hand  and  neither  massacre  a  population  nor  de- 
stroy a  town  unless  we  have  proof  positive  that  both  are 
seething  with  rebellion." 

"Seething  with  rebellion!"  exclaimed  don  Ramon,  "then 
what  of  Ghent — which  is  a  very  nest  of  rebels?" 

"Ah!"      retorted      Alva,      "Ghent      by      the      Mass! 


28  LEATHERFACE 

Seigniors,  all  of  you  who  know  that  accursed  city,  bring 
me  proof  that  she  harbours  Orange  or  his  troops!  Bring 
me  proof  that  she  gives  him  money!  Bring  me  proof 
that  plots  against  our  Government  are  hatched  within 
her  walls!  I  have  moral  proofs  that  Orange  has  been  in 
Ghent  lately,  that  he  is  levying  troops  within  her  very 
walls — I  know  that  he  has  received  promises  of  support 
from  some  of  her  most  influential  citizens  ,  .  ," 

"Nay,  then,  let  your  Highness  but  give  the  order,"  broke 
in  don  Ramon  once  more,  "my  soldiers  would  spend  three 
fruitful  days  in  Ghent." 

"As  I  pointed  out  to  His  Highness  yesterday,"  rejoined 
de  Vargas  in  mellifluous  tones,  "we  should  reduce  Ghent 
to  ashes  before  she  hatches  further  mischief  against  us. 
Once  a  city  hath  ceased  to  be,  it  can  no  longer  be  a  source 
of  danger  to  the  State  .  .  .  and,"  he  added  blandly, 
"there  is  more  money  in  Ghent  than  in  any  other  city  of 
Flanders." 

"And  more  rebellion  in  one  family  there  than  in  the 
whole  of  the  population  of  Brabant,"  assented  Councillor 
Arsens.  "I  have  lived  in  that  accursed  city  all  my  life," 
he  continued  savagely,  "and  I  say  that  Ghent  ought  not 
to  be  allowed  to  exist  a  day  longer  than  is  necessary  for 
massing  together  two  or  three  regiments  of  unpaid  soldiery 
and  turning  them  loose  into  the  town — just  as  we  did  in 
Mechlin!" 

The  others  nodded  approval. 

"And  by  the  Mass    .     .     ."  resumed  don  Ramon. 

"Enough,  Messire,"  broke  in  the  Duke  peremptorily, 
"who  are  you,  I  pray,  who  are  you  all  to  be  thus  discuss- 
ing the  orders  of  His  Majesty  the  King?  I  have  trans- 
mitted to  you  His  Majesty's  orders  just  as  I  received  them 
from  Madrid  yesterday,  It  is  for  you — for  us  all — to 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  29 

show  our  zeal  and  devotion  at  this  critical  moment  in  our 
nation's  history,  by  obeying  blindly,  whole-heartedly,  those 
gracious  commands.  Do  we  want  our  King  to  be  further 
embarrassed  by  a  quarrel  with  the  Emperor  ?  And  what  are 
those  orders,  I  ask  you?  Wise  and  Christianlike  as  usual. 
His  Majesty  doth  not  forbid  the  punishment  of  rebel  cities 
— No! — all  that  he  asks  is  that  we  deliver  Orange  unto 
him — Orange,  the  arch-traitor — and  that  in  future  we  prove 
conclusively  to  Europe  and  to  Maximilian  that  when  we 
punish  a  Flemish  city  we  do  so  with  unquestioned  jus- 
tice." 

He  paused,  and  his  prominent,  heavy-lidded  eyes  wan- 
dered somewhat  contemptuously  on  the  sullen  faces  around 
the  board. 

"Proofs,  seigniors,"  he  said  with  a  light  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  "proofs  are  not  difficult  to  obtain.  All  you 
want  is  a  good  friend  inside  a  city  to  keep  you  well  in- 
formed. The  paid  spy  is  not  sufficient — oft-times  he  is 
clumsy  and  himself  an  object  of  suspicion.  Orange  has 
been  in  Ghent,  seigniors;  he  will  go  again!  He  has  dis- 
banded his  army,  but  at  his  call  another  will  spring  up 
.  .  .  in  Ghent  mayhap  .  .  .  where  he  has  so  many 
friends  .  .  .  where  money  is  plentiful  and  rebellion 
rife.  .  .  .  We  must  strike  at  Ghent  before  she  be- 
comes an  open  menace  .  .  ." 

"You'll  never  strike  at  Orange,"  broke  in  Councillor 
Arsens  obstinately,  "while  that  creature  Leatherface  is  at 
large." 

"He  is  said  to  hail  from  Ghent,"  added  Viglius  with 
conviction. 

"Then  by  the  Mass,  seigniors,"  interposed  Alva  fiercely, 
"the  matter  is  even  more  simple  than  I  had  supposed,  and 
all  this  talk  and  these  murmurings  savour  of  treason, 


30  LEATHERFACE 

meseems.  Are  you  fools  and  dolts  to  imagine  that  when 
His  Majesty's  orders  were  known  to  me,  I  did  not  at  once 
set  to  work  to  fulfil  them?  We  want  to  strike  at  Ghent, 
seigniors,  and  want  proofs  of  her  rebellion — His  Majesty 
wants  those  proofs  and  he  wants  the  death  of  Orange.  We 
all  desire  to  raze  Ghent  to  the  ground!  Then  will  you 
give  me  your  close  attention,  and  I  will  e'en  tell  you  my 
plans  for  attaining  all  these  objects  and  earning  the  ap- 
proval of  our  gracious  King  and  recognition  from  the  rest 
pf  Europe." 

"Then  should  not  don  Ramon  de  Linea  retire?"  queried 
President  Viglius,  "surely  His  Highness's  decision  can  only 
be  disclosed  to  members  of  his  council." 

"Let  don  Ramon  stay,"  interposed  de  Vargas  with  un- 
answerable authority,  even  as  the  young  man  was  preparing 
to  take  his  leave.  "The  matter  is  one  that  in  a  measure 
will  concern  him,  seeing  that  it  involves  the  destinies  of  the 
city  of  Ghent  and  that  His  Highness  is  pleased  to  give 
him  the  command  of  our  troops  stationed  in  that  city." 


Don  Ramon  de  Linea  glanced  up  at  de  Vargas  with  a 
look  of  agreeable  surprise.  The  command  of  the  troops 
in  Ghent!  Of  a  truth  this  was  news  to  him,  and  happy 
news  indeed.  Rumour  was  current  that  the  Duke  of  Alva 
— ^Lieutenant-Governor  of  the  Low  Countries  and  Captain- 
General  of  the  forces — was  about  to  visit  Ghent,  and  the 
captain  in  command  there  would  thus  be  in  a  position  of 
doing  useful  work,  mayhap  of  rendering  valuable  services, 
and  in  any  case,  of  being  well  before  the  eyes  of  the 
Captain-General. 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  31 

All  the  young  man's  elegant,  languid  manner  had  come 
back  to  him.  He  had  had  a  fright,  but  nothing  more, 
and  commendation — in  the  shape  of  this  important  promo- 
tion— had  allayed  all  his  fears:  his  being  allowed  to  be 
present  at  a  deliberation  of  the  Grand  Council  was  also  a 
signal  mark  of  favour  granted  to  him,  no  doubt  in  recog- 
nition of  his  zeal  and  loyalty  whilst  destroying  the  noble 
city  of  Mechlin  for  the  glory  of  King  Philip  of  Spain. 

He  now  resumed  his  seat  at  the  board,  selecting  with 
becoming  modesty  a  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  and 
feeling  not  the  least  disconcerted  by  the  wrathful,  envious 
looks  which  President  Viglius  and  one  or  two  other  Nether- 
landers  directed  against  him. 

"The  plan,  seigniors,  which  I  have  in  my  mind,"  re- 
sumed the  Duke  after  a  slight  pause,  "could  never  have 
come  to  maturity  but  for  the  loyal  co-operation  of  senor 
Juan  de  Vargas  and  of  his  equally  loyal  daughter.  Let 
me  explain,"  he  continued,  seeing  the  look  of  astonishment 
which  spread  over  most  of  the  faces  around  the  board. 
"It  is  necessary,  in  view  of  all  that  we  said  just  now,  that 
I  should  have  a  means — a  tool  I  might  say — for  the  work- 
ing out  of  a  project  which  has  both  the  death  of  Orange 
and  the  punishment  of  Ghent  for  its  aim.  I  have  told 
you  that  I  am  morally  certain  that  Orange  is  operating  in 
Ghent  at  the  present  moment.  Is  it  likely  that  he  would 
leave  such  a  storehouse  of  wealth  and  rebellion  untouched? 
— heresy  is  rampant  in  Ghent  and  treachery  goes  hand  in 
hand  with  it.  Our  spies  unfortunately  have  been  unable  to 
obtain  very  reliable  information :  the  inhabitants  are  astute 
and  wary — they  hatch  their  plots  with  devilish  cunning 
and  secrecy.  Obviously,  therefore,  what  we  want  is  a  loyal 
worker,  an  efficient  and  devoted  servant  of  the  King  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  civic  life  of  the  town:  if  only  we 


82  LEATHERFACE 

can  get  to  know  what  goes  on  in  the  intimate  family  circles 
of  those  townsfolk,  I  feel  sure  that  we  shall  get  all  the 
proofs  that  the  King  desires  of  the  treachery  of  Ghent." 

He  paused  a  moment  in  order  to  draw  breath;  absolute 
silence — the  silence  of  tense  expectation — hung  around  the 
council-board.  The  Netherlanders  hung  obsequiously  on 
the  tyrant's  lips,  del  Rio  leaned  back  in  his  chair — seemingly 
indifferent — and  de  Vargas  was  closely  watching  don 
Ramon  de  Linea;  the  young  man  was  trying  to  appear 
calmly  interested,  but  the  restless  look  in  his  eyes  and  a 
slight  tremor  of  his  hand  betrayed  inward  agitation. 

"Some  of  you  reverend  seigniors,"  continued  the  Duke 
of  Alva  after  awhile,  in  powerful,  compelling  tones,  "will 
perhaps  have  guessed  by  now,  what  connection  there  is 
in  my  mind  between  that  vast  project  which  I  have  just 
put  before  you  and  the  daughter  of  my  loyal  coadjutor 
don  Juan  de  Vargas.  I  have  arranged  that  she  shall  marry 
a  man  of  influence  and  position  in  Ghent,  so  that  she 
can  not  only  keep  me  informed  of  all  the  intrigues  which 
are  brewing  in  that  city  against  the  Government  of  our 
gracious  King,  but  also  become  the  means  whereby  we 
can  lure  Orange  to  his  doom,  capture  that  mysterious 
Leatherface,  and  then  deliver  Ghent  over  to  don  Ramon's 
soldiery." 

He  struck  the  table  repeatedly  with  his  fist  as  he  spoke : 
there  was  no  doubting  the  power  of  the  man  to  accom- 
plish what  he  wanted,  as  well  as  the  cruelty  and  vindictive- 
ness  wherewith  he  would  pursue  anyone  who  dared  to 
attempt  to  thwart  him  in  his  projects.  No  one  thought 
of  interrupting  him.  Don  Ramon  kept  his  agitation  under 
control  as  best  he  could,  for  he  felt  that  de  Vargas's  eyes 
still  watched  him  closely. 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  33 

"A  very  admirable  idea,"  now  murmured  Viglius  ob- 
sequiously. 

As  usual  on  these  occasions,  it  was  obvious  that  he  and 
the  other  Netherlanders  were  mere  figureheads  at  the 
council-board.  Alva  was  directing,  planning,  commanding, 
de  Vargas  had  been  the  confidant,  and  del  Rio  would  always 
be  the  ready  tool  when  needed:  but  Viglius,  de  Berlay- 
mont,  Hessels,  and  the  others,  were  mere  servile  listeners, 
ready  to  give  the  approbation  which  was  expected  of  them 
and  withholding  every  word  of  criticism, 


VI 


"And  doth  donna  Lenora  de  Vargas  enter  into  all  these 
far-reaching  schemes?"  now  asked  don  Ramon  coldly. 
"Meseems,  they  are  above  a  woman's  comprehension." 

De  Vargas'  persistent  glance  was  irritating  his  nerves; 
he  threw  a  challenging  look — wholly  defiant — across  the 
table  at  the  older  man. 

"My  daughter,  Messire,"  said  the  latter  loftily,  "is 
above  all  a  true  Spaniard.  She  has  been  brought  up  to 
obey  and  not  to  discuss.  She  is  old  enough  now  to  forget 
all  past  youthful  follies,"  he  added,  answering  don  Ramon's 
defiant  glance  with  one  that  conveyed  a  threat.  "Her  de- 
votion to  her  Church,  her  King  and  her  country,  and  her 
hatred  of  Orange  and  all  rebels  will  influence  her  actions 
in  the  way  the  Lieutenant-Governor  desires." 

Don  Ramon  was  silent.  He  had  understood  the  threat 
which  de  Vargas'  glance  had  expressed,  and  he  knew 
what  the  other  meant  when  he  spoke  of  "past  youthful 
follies" — it  meant  the  breaking  off  of  a  pleasing  romance, 
a  farewell  to  many  an  ambitious  dream,  Don  Ramon  sup- 


84  LEATHERFACE 

pressed  a  sigh  of  anger  and  of  disappointment:  donna 
Lenora  de  Vargas  was  beautiful  and  wealthy,  but  it  were 
not  wise  to  let  her  father  see  how  hard  he — Ramon — had 
been  hit.  He  took  no  further  part  in  the  discussion,  and 
after  awhile  he  succeeded  in  appealing  wholly  indifferent 
to  its  sentimental  side;  but  he  listened  attentively  to  all 
that  was  said,  and  when  he  met  de  Vargas'  glance,  which 
now  and  then  was  fixed  mockingly  upon  him,  he  answered 
it  with  a  careless  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"And,"  now  rejoined  Pierre  Arsens,  who  was  president 
of  Artois  and  a  patrician  of  Hainault,  "may  we  ask  if  His 
Highness  has  already  chosen  the  happy  man  who  is  to 
become  the  husband  of  such  a  pattern  of  womanhood  ?" 

''My  choice  has  naturally  fallen  on  the  son  of  Mynheer 
Charles  van  Rycke,  the  High-Bailiff  of  Ghent,"  replied 
Alva  curtly. 

"A  family  of  traitors  if  ever  there  was  one,"  growled 
Alberic  del  Rio  savagely.  "I  know  them.  The  father  is 
all  right,  so  is  the  younger  son  Mark — younger,  I  believe, 
by  only  a  couple  of  hours — a  wastrel  and  something  of  a 
drunkard,  so  I  understand;  but  the  mother  and  the  other 
son  are  impudent  adherents  of  Orange:  they  have  more 
than  once  drawn  the  attention  of  the  Chief  Inquisitor  on 
themselves,  and  if  I  had  my  way  with  such  cattle,  I 
would  have  had  the  men  hanged  and  the  woman  burned 
long  before  this." 

"Van  Rycke,"  said  Alva  coldly,  "is  High-Bailiff  of  Ghent. 
He  is  a  good  Catholic  and  so  is  his  wife :  he  is  a  man  of 
great  consideration  in  the  city  and  his  sons  are  popular. 
It  has  not  been  thought  expedient  to  interfere  with  them 
up  to  now.  But — bearing  my  schemes  in  mind — I  have 
caused  the  man  to  be  severely  warned  once  or  twice.  These 
warnings  have  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  panic,  and  lately 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  35 

when  my  scheme  had  matured  I  told  him  that  my  desire  was 
that  one  of  his  sons  should  wed  don  Juan  de  Vargas* 
daughter.  He  had  no  thought  of  refusal.  In  fact  his  ac- 
ceptance was  positively  abject." 

"And  on  what  grounds  was  the  marriage  suggested  to 
him?"  questioned  President  Arsens. 

"Grounds,  Messire?"  retorted  the  Duke;  "we  give  no 
grounds  or  reasons  for  our  commands  to  our  Flemish 
subjects.  We  give  an  order  and  they  obey.  I  told  Mynheer 
van  Rycke  that  I  desired  the  marriage  and  that  was 
enough." 

"Then,"  interposed  President  Viglius  with  an  attempt 
at  jocularity,  "we  shall  soon  be  able  to  congratulate  two 
young  people  on  a  happy  event !" 

"You  will  be  able  to  do  that  to-morrow,  Messire,"  quoth 
the  Duke.  "Senor  de  Vargas  goes  to  Ghent  for  the  pur- 
pose of  affiancing  the  two  young  people  together ;  the  mar- 
riage ceremony  will  take  place  within  the  week.  His 
Majesty  hath  approved  of  my  scheme:  he  desires  that 
we  should  expedite  the  marriage.  Senor  de  Vargas  is 
willing,  Messire  van  Rycke  would  not  think  of  objecting, 
donna  Lenora  is  heart  free.  Why  should  we  delay?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  murmured  don  Ramon  under  his 
breath. 

"Donna  Lenora,"  resumed  Alva  sententiously,  "is  in- 
deed lucky  in  that — unlike  most  women — she  will  be  able 
to  work  personally  for  the  glory  of  her  King  and  country. 
If  through  her  instrumentality  we  can  bring  Orange  to 
the  block  and  Ghent  to  her  knees,  there  is  no  favour  which 
her  father  could  not  ask  of  us." 

As  he  said  this,  he  turned  to  de  Vargas  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  him.  De  Vargas  took  the  hand  respectfully 
and  bent  over  it  in  dutiful  obedience. 


36  LEATHERFACE 

"Now,  seigniors,"  resumed  the  Duke  more  gaily,  and 
once  more  addressing  the  full  council-board,  "you  know 
the  full  reason  of  my  projected  journey  to  Ghent.  I  go 
ostensibly  in  order  to  inaugurate  the  statue  of  our  Sover- 
eign King  erected  by  my  orders  in  the  market  place,  but 
also  in  order  to  ascertain  how  our  loyal  worker  will  have 
progressed  in  the  time.  Donna  Lenora  de  Vargas  will  have 
been  the  wife  of  Messire  van  Rycke  for  over  a  sennight 
by  then:  she  will — and  I  mistake  not — have  much  to  tell 
us.  In  the  meanwhile  sefior  de  Vargas  will  take  up  his 
residence  in  the  city  as  vicarius  criminalis:  he  will  begin 
his  functions  to-morrow  by  presiding  over  the  engagement 
of  his  daughter  to  the  son  of  the  High-Bailiff :  there  will 
be  much  public  rejoicing  and  many  entertainments  during 
the  week  and  on  the  day  of  the  wedding  ceremony :  to  these, 
seigniors,  ye  are  graciously  bidden.  I  pray  you  go  and 
mingle  as  far  as  you  can  with  that  crowd  of  uncouth  and 
vulgar  burghers  whose  treachery  seems  to  pierce  even 
through  their  ill-fitting  doublets.  I  pray  you  also  to  keep 
your  eyes  and  ears  open  ...  an  my  conjectures  are 
correct,  much  goes  on  in  Ghent  of  which  the  Holy  In- 
quisition should  have  cognisance.  We  are  out  on  a  special 
campaign  against  cunning  traitors,  and  Ghent  is  our  first 
objective.  When  we  turn  our  soldiery  loose  into  the  city, 
yours,  seigniors,  will  be  the  first  spoils.  .  .  .  Ghent 
is  rich  in  treasure  and  money  .  .  .  those  first  spoils 
will  be  worth  the  winning.  Until  that  happy  day,  I  bid 
you  au  revoir,  gentle  Sirs,  and  let  your  toast  be  at  every 
banquet:  'To  the  destruction  of  Ghent,  and  to  the  death 
of  Orange!'" 

After  which  long  peroration  the  Lieutenant-Governor  in- 
timated with  a  casual  wave  of  his  be-ringed  hand  that  the 
sitting  of  the  Grand  Council  was  at  an  end.  The  illustrious 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  37 

councillors  rose  with  alacrity :  they  were  now  in  rare  good 
humour.  The  parting  speech  of  His  Highness  tickled  their 
cupidity.  The  first  spoils  at  the  sacking  of  Ghent  should 
mean  a  fortune  for  every  member  of  the  board.  General 
de  Noircarmes  had  made  a  huge  one  at  the  sacking  of  Mons, 
and  even  younger  officers  like  don  Ramon  de  Linea  had 
vastly  enriched  themselves  when  Mechlin  was  given  over 
to  the  soldiers, 

One  by  one  now  the  grave  seigniors  withdrew,  having 
taken  respectful  leave  of  His  Highness.  To  the  salute" 
of  the  Netherlanders — of  Viglius  and  Hessels,  of  Berlay- 
mont  and  the  others,  the  Duke  responded  with  a  curt  bow 
— to  de  Vargas  and  del  Rio,  and  also  to  don  Ramon, 
he  nodded  with  easy  familiarity.  However  obsequious  the 
Netherlanders  might  be — however  proven  their  zeal,  their 
Spanish  masters  never  allowed  them  to  forget  that  there 
was  a  world  of  social  distinction  between  a  grandee  of 
Spain  and  the  uncouth  burghers  and  even  patricians  of  this 
semi-civilised  land. 


VII 


Having  made  his  last  obeisance  before  the  Duke  of  Alva 
and  taken  leave  of  the  grave  seigniors  of  the  Grand 
Council,  don  Ramon  de  Linea  bowed  himself  out  of  the 
room  with  all  the  ceremony  which  Spanish  etiquette  pre- 
scribed. As  he  did  so  he  noticed  that  at  a  significant 
sign  from  Alva,  de  Vargas  and  Alberic  del  Rio  remained 
behind  in  the  council-chamber,  even  while  all  the  Nether- 
landers were  being  dismissed.  He  watched  these  latter 
gentlemen  as  one  by  one  they  filed  quickly  out  of  the  house 
— loath  even  to  exchange  a  few  friendly  words  with  one 
another  on  the  doorstep  in  this  place  where  every  wall  had 


38  LEATHERFACE 

ears  and  every  nook  and  cranny  concealed  a  spy.  He 
watched  them  with  an  air  of  supercilious  contempt,  oblivious 
of  the  fact  that  he  himself  had  been  not  a  little  scared  by 
the  black  looks  cast  on  him  by  the  all-powerful  tyrant  and 
merciless  autocrat. 

The  scare  had  been  unpleasant,  but  it  was  all  over  now : 
Fate — that  ever  fickle  jade — seemed  inclined  to  smile  on 
him.  The  penniless  scion  of  a  noble  race,  he  seemed  at 
last  on  the  high  road  to  fortune — the  command  of  the 
troops  in  Ghent  was  an  unexpected  gift  of  the  goddess, 
whilst  the  sacking  and  looting  of  Mechlin  had  amply  filled 
his  pockets. 

But  it  was  a  pity  about  donna  Lenora! 

Don  Ramon  paused  in  the  vast  panelled  hall  and  in- 
stinctively his  eyes  wandered  to  the  mirror,  framed  in 
rich  Flemish  carved  wood,  which  hung  upon  the  wall.  By 
our  Lady!  he  had  well-nigh  lost  his  self-control  just  now 
under  de  Vargas'  mocking  gaze,  and  also  that  air  of 
high-breeding  and  sang-froid  which  became  him  so  well: 
the  thought  of  donna  Lenora  even  in  connection  with  her 
approaching  marriage  caused  him  to  readjust  the  set  of 
his  doublet  and  the  stiff  folds  of  his  ruffle,  and  his  well- 
shaped  hand  wandered  lovingly  up  to  his  silky  moustache. 

A  sound  immediately  behind  him  caused  him  to  start 
and  to  turn.  An  elderly  woman  wrapped  in  a  dark  shawl 
and  wearing  a  black  veil  right  over  her  face  and  head 
was  standing  close  to  his  elbow. 

"Inez?"  he  exclaimed,  "what  is  it?" 

"Hist!  I  beg  of  you,  senor,"  whispered  the  woman,  "I 
am  well-nigh  dead  with  terror  at  thought  that  I  might 
be  seen.  The  senorita  knew  that  you  would  be  here  to-day : 
she  saw  you  from  the  gallery  above,  and  sent  me  down 
to  ask  you  to  come  to  her  at  once." 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  39 

"The  senorita?"  broke  in  don  Ramon  impatiently,  and 
with  a  puzzled  frown,  "is  she  here?" 

"Senor  de  Vargas  won't  let  her  out  of  His  sight  now. 
When  he  hath  audience  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor  or 
business  with  the  council  he  makes  the  senorita  come  with 
him.  The  Duke  of  Alva  hath  given  her  a  room  in  this 
house,  where  she  can  sit  while  her  father  is  at  the  Council." 

"But  Heavens  above,  why  all  this  mystery?" 

"The  senorita  will  tell  your  Graciousness,"  said  the 
woman,  "I  beg  of  you  to  come  at  once.  If  I  stay  longer 
down  here  I  shall  die  of  fright." 

And  like  a  scared  hen,  old  Inez  trotted  across  the  hall, 
without  waiting  to  see  if  don  Ramon  followed  her.  The 
young  man  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment:  the  call 
was  a  peremptory  one,  coming  as  it  did  from  a  beautiful 
woman  whom  he  loved:  at  the  same  time  all  that  he  had 
heard  in  the  council-chamber  was  a  warning  to  him  to 
keep  out  of  de  Vargas'  way;  the  latter — if  Inez  spoke  the 
truth — was  keeping  his  daughter  almost  a  prisoner,  and 
it  was  never  good  at  any  time  to  run  counter  to  senor 
de  Vargas. 

The  house  was  very  still.  The  Netherlanders  had  all 
gone :  two  serving  men  appeared  to  be  asleep  in  the  porch, 
otherwise  there  came  no  sign  of  life  from  any  part  of  the 
building:  the  heavy  oak  doors  which  gave  on  the  ante- 
room of  the  council-chamber  effectually  deadened  every 
sound  which  might  have  come  from  there. 

Don  Ramon  smiled  to  himself  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  After  all  he  was  a  fool  to  be  so  easily  scared: 
a  beautiful  woman  beckoned,  and  he  had  not  been  for- 
bidden to  see  her — so — after  that  one  brief  moment  of 
hesitation  he  turned  tp  follow  Inez  up  the  stairs. 

The  woman  led  the  way  round  the  gallery,  then  up 


40  LEATHERFACE 

another  flight  of  stairs  and  along  a  narrow  corridor,  till 
she  came  to  a  low  door,  beside  which  she  stopped. 

"Go  in,  I  pray  you,  seiior,"  she  said,  "the  senorita  ex- 
pects you." 

The  young  man  walked  unannounced  into  the  small  room 
beyond. 

There  came  a  little  cry  of  happy  surprise  out  of  the 
recess  of  a  wide  dormer  window,  and  the  next  moment 
don  Ramon  held  Lenora  de  Vargas  in  his  arms. 


vm 


Lenora  with  the  golden  hair  and  the  dark  velvety  eyes ! 
Thus  do  the  chroniclers  of  the  time  speak  of  her  (notably 
the  Sieur  de  Vaernewyck  who  knew  her  intimately),  thus 
too  did  Velasquez  paint  her,  a  few  years  after  these  notable 
events — all  in  white,  for  she  seldom  wore  coloured  gowns 
• — very  stately,  with  the  small  head  slightly  thrown  back, 
the  fringe  of  dark  lashes  veiling  the  lustre  of  her  luminous 
eyes. 

But  just  at  this  moment  there  was  no  stateliness  about 
donna  Lenora:  she  clung  to  don  Ramon,  just  like  a 
loving  child  that  has  been  rather  scared  and  knows  where 
to  find  protection ;  and  he  accepted  her  caress  with  an  easy, 
somewhat  supercilious  air  of  condescension — the  child  was 
so  pretty  and  so  very  much  in  love!  He  patted  her  hair 
with  gentle,  soothing  gesture  and  thanked  kind  Fate  for 
this  pleasing  gift  of  a  beautiful  woman's  love. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  were  in  Brussels,"  he  said 
after  awhile,  and  when  he  had  led  her  to  a  seat  in  the 
window,  and  sat  down  beside  her.  "All  this  while  I  thought 
you  still  in  Segovia." 


41 

His  glance  was  searching  hers  and  his  vanity  was  pleas- 
antly stirred  by  the  fact  that  she  was  pale  and  thin,  and 
that  those  wonderful,  luminous  eyes  of  hers  looked  as  if 
they  had  shed  many  tears  of  late. 

"Ramon,"  she  whispered,  "you  know?'* 

"The  Duke  of  Alva,"  he  replied  dryly,  "gave  me  offi- 
cial information." 

Then  seeing  that  she  remained  silent  and  dejected  he 
added  peremptorily:  "Lenora!  how  long  is  it  since  you 
have  known  of  this  proposed  marriage?" 

"Only  three  days,"  she  replied  tonelessly.  "My  father 
sent  for  me  about  a  month  ago.  The  Duchess  of  Medina 
Coeli  was  coming  over  to  the  Netherlands  on  a  visit  to 
her  lord,  and  I  was  told  that  I  must  accompany  her.  We 
started  from  Laredo  in  the  Esperanza  on  the  loth  of  last 
month  and  we  landed  at  Flushing  a  week  ago.  Oh!  at 
first  I  was  so  happy  to  come  .  •  .  it  is  nine  months 
and  more  since  you  left  Spain  and  my  heart  was  aching 
for  a  sight  of  you." 

"Then    .     .     .    when  did  you  first  hear?" 

"Three  days  since,  when  we  arrived  in  Brussels.  The 
Duchess  herself  took  me  to  my  father's  house,  and  then 
he  told  me  .  .  .  that  he  had  bade  me  come  because 
the  Lieutenant-Governor  had  arranged  a  marriage  for  me 
.  .  .  with  a  Netherlander." 

Don  Ramon  muttered  an  angry  oath. 

"Did  he — your  father  I  mean — never  hint  at  it  before  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Never.  A  month  ago  he  still  spoke  of  you  in  his 
letters  to  me.  Had  you  no  suspicions,  Ramon?" 

"None,"  he  replied. 

"It  was  he  of  course  who  obtained  for  you  that  com- 
mand under  don  Frederic,  which  took  you  out  of  Spain." 


42  LEATHERFACE 

"It  was  a  fine  position  and  I  accepted  it  gladly  .  .  . 
and  unsuspectingly:" 

"It  must  have  been  the  beginning:  he  wanted  you  out 
of  my  way  already  then,  though  he  went  on  pretending 
all  this  while  that  he  favoured  your  attentions  to  me.  He 
thought  that  I  would  soon  forget  you.  How  little  he 
knows  met  And  now  he  has  forbidden  me  to  think  of  you 
again.  Since  I  am  in  Brussels  he  hardly  lets  me  out  of 
his  sight.  He  only  leaves  the  house  in  order  to  attend  on 
the  Duke,  and  when  he  does,  he  brings  me  here  with  him. 
Inez  and  I  are  sent  up  to  this  room  and  I  am  virtually 
a  prisoner." 

"It  all  seems  like  an  ugly  dream,  Lenora,"  he  murmured 
sullenly. 

"Aye!  an  ugly  dream,"  she  sighed.  "Ofttimes,  since 
my  father  told  me  this  awful  thing,  I  have  thought  that 
it  could  not  be  true.  God  could  not  allow  anything  so 
monstrous  and  so  wicked.  I  thought  that  I  must  be  dream- 
ing and  must  presently  wake  up  and  find  myself  in  the 
dear  old  convent  at  Segovia  with  your  farewell  letter  to 
me  under  my  pillow." 

She  was  gazing  straight  out  before  her — not  at  him,  for 
she  felt  that  if  she  looked  on  him,  all  her  fortitude  would 
give  way  and  she  would  cry  like  a  child.  This  she  would 
not  do,  for  her  woman's  instinct  had  already  told  her  that 
all  the  courage  in  this  terrible  emergency  must  come  from 
her. 

He  sat  there,  moody  and  taciturn,  all  the  while  that  she 
longed  for  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  to  swear  to  her 
that  never  would  he  give  her  up,  never  would  he  allow  rea- 
sons of  State  to  come  between  him  and  his  love. 

"There  are  political  reasons  it  seems,"  she  continued, 
and  the  utter  wretchedness  and  hopelessness  with  which  she 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  43 

spoke  were  a  pathetic  contrast  to  his  own  mere  sullen  re- 
sentment. "My  father  has  not  condescended  to  say  much. 
He  sent  for  me  and  I  came.  As  soon  as  I  arrived  in 
Brussels  he  told  me  that  I  must  no  longer  think  of  you: 
that  childish  folly,  he  said,  must  now  come  to  an  end.  Then 
he  advised  me  that  the  Lieutenant-Governor  had  arranged 
a  marriage  for  me  with  the  son  of  Messire  van  Rycke, 
High-Bailiff  of  Ghent  .  .  .  that  we  are  to  be  affianced 
to-morrow  and  married  within  the  week.  I  cried — I  im- 
plored— I  knelt  to  my  father  and  begged  him  not  to  break 
my  heart,  my  life.  .  .  ,  I  told  him  that  to  part  me 
from  you  was  to  condemn  me  to  worse  than  death,  »  ,  ." 

"Well?  and—?"  he  queried. 

"You  know  my  father,  Ramon,"  she  said  with  a  slight 
shudder,  "almost  as  well  as  I  do.  Do  you  believe  that  any 
tears  would  move  him?" 

He  made  no  reply.  Indeed,  what  could  he  say?  He  did 
know  Juan  de  Vargas,  knew  that  such  a  man  would  sacri- 
fice without  pity  or  remorse  everything  that  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  schemes  or  of  his  ambition. 

"I  was  not  even  told  that  you  would  be  in  Brussels 
to-day — Inez  only  heard  of  it  through  the  Duke  of  Alva's 
serving  man — then  she  and  I  watched  for  you,  because  I 
felt  that  I  must  at  least  be  the  first  to  tell  you  the  awful 
— awful  news !  Oh !"  she  exclaimed  with  sudden  vehemence, 
"the  misery  of  it  all!  .  .  .  Ramon,  cannot  you  think 
of  something? — cannot  you  think?  Are  we  going  to  be 
parted  like  this?  as  if  our  love  had  never  been,  as  if  our 
love  were  not  sweet  and  sacred  and  holy,  the  blessing  of 
God  which  no  man  should  have  the  power  to  take  away 
from  us!" 

She  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  down,  and  don  Ramon 
with  one  ear  alert  to  every  sound  outside  had  much  ado 


44  LEATHERFACE 

to  soothe  and  calm  her.  This  he  tried  to  do,  for  selfish 
as  he  was,  he  loved  this  beautiful  woman  with  that  pas- 
sionate if  shallow  ardour  which  is  characteristic  in  men 
of  his  temperament. 

"Lenora,"  he  said  after  awhile,  "it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  say  anything  for  the  moment.  Fate  and  your 
father's  cruelty  have  dealt  me  a  blow  which  has  half- 
stunned  me.  As  you  say,  I  must  think — I  am  not  going  to 
give  up  hope  quite  as  readily  as  your  father  seems  to  think. 
By  our  Lady!  I  am  not  just  an  old  glove  that  can  so 
lightly  be  cast  aside.  I  must  think  ,  ,  .  I  must  de- 
vise. .  .  .  But  in  the  meanwhile  ,  ,  ," 

He  paused  and  something  of  that  same  look  of  fear 
came  into  his  eyes  which  had  been  there  when  in  the 
Council  Chamber  he  had  dreaded  the  Duke  of  Alva'a 
censure. 

"In  the  meanwhile,  my  sweet,"  he  added  hastily,  "you 
must  pretend  to  obey.  You  cannot  openly  defy  your  father ! 
.  t  .  nor  yet  the  Duke  of  Alva.  You  know  them 
both!  They  are  men  who  know  neither  pity  nor  mercy  I 
Your  father  would  punish  you  if  you  disobeyed  him 
...  he  has  the  means  of  compelling  you  to  obey. 
But  the  Duke's  wrath  would  fall  with  deathly  violence  upon 
me.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  he  would  sacrifice  me 
ruthlessly  if  he  felt  that  I  was  likely  to  interfere  with  any 
of  his  projects:  and  your  marriage  with  the  Nether- 
lander is  part  of  one  of  his  vast  schemes." 

The  look  of  terror  became  more  marked  upon  his  face, 
his  dark  skin  had  become  almost  livid  in  hue:  and  Lenora 
clung  to  him,  trembling,  for  she  knew  that  everything  he 
said  was  true.  They  were  like  two  birds  caught  in  the 
net  of  a  remorseless  fowler:  to  struggle  for  freedom 
were  worse  than  useless.  De  Vargas  was  a  man  who  had 


THE  BLOOD  COUNCIL  45 

attained  supreme  power  beside  the  most  absolute  tyrant 
the  world  had  ever  known.  Every  human  being  around 
him — even  his  only  child — was  a  mere  pawn  in  his  hands 
for  the  great  political  game  in  which  the  Duke  of  Alva 
was  the  chief  player — a  mere  tool  for  the  fashioning  of 
that  monstrous  chain  which  was  destined  to  bind  the  Low 
Countries  to  the  chariot-wheels  of  Spain.  A  useless  tool, 
a  superfluous  pawn  he  would  throw  away  without  a  pang 
of  remorse:  this  don  Ramon  knew  and  so  did  Lenora — 
but  in  Ramon  that  knowledge  reigned  supreme  and  went 
hand  in  hand  with  terror,  whilst  in  the  young  girl  there 
was  all  the  desire  to  defy  that  knowledge  and  to  make 
a  supreme  fight  for  love  and  happiness. 

"I  must  not  stay  any  longer  now,  my  sweet,"  he  said 
after  awhile,  "if  your  father  has  so  absolutely  forbidden 
you  to  see  me,  then  I  have  tarried  here  too  long  already." 

He  rose  and  gently  disengaged  himself  from  the  tender 
hands  which  clung  so  pathetically  to  him. 

"I  can't  let  you  go,  Ramon,"  she  implored,  "it  seems 
as  if  you  were  going  right  out  of  my  life — and  that  my 
life  would  go  with  you  if  you  went." 

"Sweetheart,"  he  said  a  little  impatiently,  "it  is  dangerous 
for  me  to  stay  a  moment  longer.  Try  and  be  brave — I'll 
not  say  farewell — We'll  meet  again.  .  .  . 

"How?" 

"Let  Inez  be  at  the  corner  of  the  Broodhuis  this  evening. 
I'll  give  her  a  letter  for  you.  In  the  meanwhile  I  shall 
have  seen  your  father.  Who  knows  his  decision  may  not 
be  irrevocable — after  all  you  are  the  one  being  in  the 
world  he  has  to  love  and  to  care  for;  he  cannot  wilfully 
break  your  heart  and  destroy  your  happiness." 

She  shook  her  head  dejectedly.  But  the  next  moment 
she  looked  up  trying  to  seem  hopeful.  She  believed  that 


46  LEATHERFACE 

he  suffered  just  as  acutely  as  she  did,  and,  womanlike, 
did  not  want  to  add  to  his  sorrow  by  letting  him  guess 
too  much  of  her  own.  She  contrived  to  keep  back  her 
tears;  she  had  shed  so  many  of  late  that  their  well-spring 
had  mayhap  run  dry:  he  folded  her  in  his  arms,  for  she 
was  exquisitely  beautiful  and  he  really  loved  her.  Mar- 
riage with  her  would  have  been  both  blissful  and  advan- 
tageous, and  his  pride  was  sorely  wounded  at  the  casual 
treatment  meted  out  to  him  by  de  Vargas:  at  the  same 
time  the  thought  of  defiance  never  once  entered  his  head 
— for  defiance  could  only  end  in  death,  and  don  Ramon 
felt  quite  sure  that  even  if  he  lost  his  beautiful  fiancee, 
life  still  held  many  compensations  for  him  in  the  future. 

Therefore  he  was  able  to  part  from  Lenora  with  a  light 
heart,  whilst  hers  was  overweighted  with  sorrow.  He 
kissed  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  lips,  and  murmured  protesta- 
tions of  deathless  love  which  only  enhanced  her  grief  and 
enflamed  all  that  selfless  ardour  of  which  her  passionate 
nature  was  capable.  Never  had  she  loved  don  Ramon 
de  Linea  as  she  loved  him  at  this  hour  of  parting — never 
perhaps  would  she  love  as  fondly  again. 

And  he  with  a  last,  tender  kiss,  airily  bade  her  to  be 
brave  and  trustful,  and  finally  waved  her  a  cheery  farewell. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SUBJECT  RACE 


"I  CANNOT  do  it,  mother,  I  cannot!  The  very  shame  of 
it  would  kill  me!" 

Laurence  van  Rycke  sat  on  a  low  chair  in  front  of 
the  fire,  his  elbow  propped  on  his  knee,  his  chin  buried  in 
his  hand.  His  mother  gave  a  little  shiver,  and  drew  her 
woollen  shawl  closer  round  her  shoulders. 

"You  cannot  go  against  your  father's  will,"  she  said 
tonelessly,  like  one  who  has  even  lost  the  power  to  suffer 
acutely.  "God  alone  knows  what  would  become  of  us  all 
if  you  did." 

"He  can  only  kill  me,"  retorted  Laurence,  with  fierce, 
passionate  resentment. 

"And  how  should  I  survive  if  he  did?" 

"Would  you  not  rather  see  me  dead,  mother  dear,  than 
wedded  to  a  woman  whose  every  thought,  every  aspiration 
must  tend  toward  the  further  destruction  of  our  country 
— she  the  daughter  of  the  most  hideous  tyrant  that  has  ever 
defamed  this  earth — more  hideous  even  than  that  execrable 
Alva  himself  .  .  ." 

He  paused  abruptly  in  the  midst  of  this  passionate  out- 
burst, for  the  old  house — which  had  been  so  solemn  and 
silent  awhile  ago,  suddenly  echoed  from  end  to  end  with 
loud  and  hilarious  sounds,  laughter  and  shouts,  heavy  foot- 
Steps,  jingle  of  spurs  and  snatches  of  song,  immediately 

47 


48  LEATHERFACE 

followed  by  one  or  two  piteous  cries  uttered  in  a  woman's 
piercing  voice.  Laurence  van  Rycke  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"What  was  that?"  he  cried,  and  made  a  dash  for  the 
door.  His  mother's  imploring  cry  called  him  back. 

"No,  no,  Laurence!  don't  go!"  she  begged.  "It  is  only 
the  soldiers !  They  tease  Jeanne,  and  she  gets  very  cross ! 
.  .  .  We  have  six  men  and  a  sergeant  quartered  here 
now,  besides  the  commandant  .  .  ." 

"Eight  Spanish  soldiers  in  the  house  of  the  High-Bailiff 
of  Ghent!"  exclaimed  Laurence,  and  a  prolonged  laugh 
of  intense  bitterness  came  from  his  overburdened  heart. 
"Oh  God!"  he  added,  as  he  stretched  out  his  arms  with  a 
gesture  of  miserable  longing  and  impotence,  "to  endure 
all  this  outrage  and  all  this  infamy! — to  know  as  we  do, 
what  has  happened  in  Mons  and  Mechlin  and  to  be  power- 
less to  do  anything — anything  against  such  hideous,  appall- 
ing, detestable  tyranny — to  feel  every  wrong  and  every 
injustice  against  the  country  one  loves,  against  one's  own 
kith  and  kin,  eating  like  the  plague  into  one's  very  bones  and 
to  remain  powerless,  inert,  an  insentient  log  in  the  face  of 
it  all.  And  all  the  while  to  be  fawning — always  fawning 
and  cringing,  kissing  the  master's  hand  that  wields  the 
flail.  .  .  .  Ugh!  And  now  this  new  tyranny,  this 
abominable  marriage.  ...  Ye  Heavens  above  me !  but 
mine  own  cowardice  in  accepting  it  would  fill  me  with 
unspeakable  loathing!" 

"Laurence,  for  pity's  sake!"  implored  the  mother. 

At  her  call  he  ran  to  her  and  knelt  at  her  feet :  then 
burying  his  head  in  his  hands  he  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"I  cannot  do  it,  mother!"  he  reiterated  piteously,  "I 
cannot  do  it.  I  would  far  rather  die!" 

With  gentle,  mechanical  touch  she  stroked  his  unruly 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  49 

fair  hair,  and  heavy  tears  rolled  down  her  wan  cheeks 
upon  her  thin,  white  hands. 

"Just  think  of  it,  mother  dear,"  resumed  Laurence  a 
little  more  calmly  after  a  while,  "would  it  not  be  intro- 
ducing a  spy  into  our  very  home?  .  .  .  and  just  now 
.  .  ,  at  the  time  when  we  all  have  so  much  at  stake 
.  .  ,  the  Prince  ,  .  ," 

"Hush,  Laurence!"  implored  the  mother;  and  this  time 
she  placed  an  authoritative  hand  upon  his  arm  and  gave 
it  a  warning  pressure;  but  her  wan  cheeks  had  become  a 
shade  paler  than  before,  and  the  look  of  terror  became 
more  marked  in  her  sunken  eyes, 

"Even  these  walls  have  ears  these  days/'  $he  added 
feebly. 

"There  is  no  danger  here,  mother  darling  .  .  ,  no- 
body can  hear,"  he  said  reassuringly.  But  nevertheless  he, 
too,  cast  a  quick  look  of  terror  into  the  remote  corners  of 
the  room  and  dropped  his  voice  to  a  whisper  when  he 
spoke  again. 

"Juan  de  Vargas*  daughter,"  he  said  with  passionate 
earnestness,  "what  hath  she  in  common  .with  us  ?  She 
hates  every  Netherlander;  she  despises  us  all,  as  every 
Spaniard  does:  she  would  wish  to  see  our  beautiful  coun- 
try devastated,  our  cities  destroyed,  our  liberties  and  ancient 
privileges  wrested  from  us,  and  every  one  of  us  made 
into  an  abject  vassal  of  her  beloved  Spain.  Every  moment 
of  my  life  I  should  feel  that  she  was  watching  me,  spying 
on  me,  making  plans  for  the  undoing  of  our  cause,  and 
betraying  our  secrets  to  her  abominable  father.  Mother 
dear,  such  a  life  would  be  hell  upon  earth*  I  could  not  do 
it.  I  would  far  rather  die." 

But  what  can  you  do,  Laurence  ?"  asked  Clemence  van 
Rycke,  with  a  sigh  of  infinite  misery. 


50  LEATHERFACE 

Laurence  rose  and  dried  his  tears.  He  felt  that  they 
had  been  unmanly,  and  was  half  ashamed  of  them.  For- 
tunately it  was  only  his  mother  who  had  seen  them,  and 
.  *.  .  how  well  she  understood! 

"I  must  think  it  all  over,  mother  dear,"  he  said  calmly. 
"It  is  early  yet.  Father  will  not  want  me  to  be  at  the 
Town-house  before  eight  o'clock.  Oh!  how  could  he  ever 
have  been  so  mean,  so  obsequious  as  to  agree  to  this  selling 
•of  his  son  in  such  a  shameful  market." 

"How  could  he  help  it?"  retorted  the  mother  with  a 
fretful  little  sigh.  "The  Duke  of  Alva  commanded  in 
the  name  of  the  King,  and  threatened  us  all  with  the  In- 
quisition if  we  disobeyed.  You  know  what  that  means," 
she  added,  whilst  that  pitiable  look  of  horror  and  fear 
once  more  crept  into  her  eyes. 

"Sometimes  I  think,"  said  Laurence  sombrely — he  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  fire  and  staring  into  the  crackling 
logs  with  a  deep  frown  right  across  his  brow — "sometimes 
I  think  that  the  worst  tortures  which  those  devils  could 
inflict  on  us  would  be  more  endurable  than  this  life  of 
constant  misery  and  humiliation." 

The  mother  made  no  reply.  Her  wan  cheeks  had  be- 
come the  colour  of  ashes,  her  thin  hands  which  were  rest- 
ing in  her  lap  were  seized  with  a  nervous  tremour.  From 
below  came  still  the  sound  of  loud  laughter  intermixed  now 
with  a  bibulous  song.  A  smothered  cry  of  rage  escaped 
Laurence's  lips:  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  stay  still,  as 
if  he  must  run  and  stop  this  insult  in  his  mother's  house, 
silence  those  brawling  soldiers,  force  their  own  obscene 
songs  down  their  throats,  regardless  of  the  terrible  re- 
prisals which  might  ensue.  Only  his  mother's  thin,  trem- 
bling hand  upon  his  arm  forced  him  to  remain,  and  to 
swallow  his  resentment  as  best  he  could. 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  51 

"It  is  no  use,  Laurence,"  she  murmured,  "and  I  would 
be  the  first  to  suffer." 

This  argument  had  the  effect  of  forcing  Laurence  van 
Rycke  to  control  his  raging  temper.  Common  sense  came 
momentarily  to  the  rescue  and  told  him  that  his  mother 
was  right.  He  started  pacing  up  and  down  the  narrow 
room  with  a  view  to  calming  his  nerves. 


ii 


"Have  you  seen  Mark  this  morning?"  asked  Clemence 
van  Rycke  suddenly. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "have  you?" 

"Only  for  a  moment." 

"What  had  he  to  say?" 

"Oh!  you  know  Mark's  way,"  she  replied  evasively. 
"It  seems  that  he  caught  sight  of  donna  Lenora  de  Vargas 
when  she  passed  through  the  Waalpoort  yesterday.  He 
made  a  flippant  joke  or  two  about  your  good  luck  and 
the  girl's  beauty." 

Laurence  suppressed  an  angry  oath. 

"Don't  blame  Mark,"  interposed  Clemence  van  Rycke 
gently,  "he  is  as  God  made  him — shallow,  careless  .  .  ." 

"Not  careless  where  his  own  pleasures  are  concerned," 
said  Laurence,  with  a  -laugh  of  bitter  contempt.  "Last 
night  at  the  'Three  Weavers'  a  lot  of  Spanish  officers 
held  carouse.  Mark  was  with  them  till  far  into  the 
night.  There  was  heavy  drinking  and  high  play,  and 
Mark  .  .  ." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  broke  in  the  mother  fretfully,  "do 
not  let  us  speak  of  Mark.  He  is  his  father's  son  .  .  . 
and  you  are  mine,"  she  added,  as  with  a  wistful  little 


52  LEATHERFACE 

gesture  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  son  whom  she 
loved.  Once  more  he  was  at  her  feet  kissing  her  hands. 

"Do  not  fret,  mother  dear,"  he  said,  "I'll  think  things 
out  quietly,  and  then  do  what  I  think  is  right." 

"You'll  do  nothing  rash,  Laurence,"  she  pleaded,  "noth- 
ing without  consulting  me?" 

"I  must  consult  my  conscience  first,  dear,"  he  said  firmly, 
"and  then  I  must  speak  with  the  Prince.  .  .  .  Yes! 
yes!  I  know,"  he  added  somewhat  impatiently,  as  once 
again  he  felt  that  warning  pressure  on  his  arm.  "Next 
to  God  my  every  thought  is  for  him;  nor  did  he  think 
of  himself  when  he  refused  to  acknowledge  the  autocracy 
of  Alva.  Our  time  is  at  hand,  mother  dear,  I  feel  it  in 
my  bones.  The  last  response  has  been  splendid:  we  have 
promises  of  close  on  two  thousand  ducats  already,  and 
two  hundred  men  are  ready  to  take  up  arms  in  the  city 
at  any  moment.  Yes!  yes!  I  know!  and  I  am  careful — I 
am  as  wary  as  the  fox!  But  how  can  I  at  such  a  moment 
think  of  matrimony?  How  can  I  think  of  bending  the 
knee  to  such  abominable  tyranny?  I  bend  the  knee  only  to 
the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  by  him  I  swear  that  I  will  not 
wed  the  daughter  of  Juan  de  Vargas !  I  will  not  bring  to 
this  hearth  and  to  my  home  one  of  that  gang  of  execrable 
tyrants  who  have  ravaged  our  country  and  crushed  the 
spirit  of  our  people.  I  have  work  to  do  for  Orange  and 
for  my  country.  I  will  not  be  hindered  by  bonds  which 
are  abhorrent  to  me." 

He  gave  his  mother  a  final  kiss  and  then  hurried  out 
of  the  room.  She  would  have  detained  him  if  she  could, 
for  she  was  terrified  of  what  he  might  do;  but  she  called 
after  him  in  vain,  and  when  presently  she  went  to  his  room 
to  look  for  him,  he  was  not  there.  But  on  his  desk  there 
was  a  letter  addressed  to  his  father;  Clemence  van  Rycke 


53 

took  it  up:  it  was  not  sealed,  only  rolled,  and  tied  with 
ribbon:  this  she  undid  and  read  the  letter.  There  were 
only  a  few  words,  and  when  the  unfortunate  woman  had 
grasped  their  full  meaning  she  uttered  a  moan  of  pain 
and  sank  half -fainting  on  her  knees.  Here  Jeanne  found 
her  half  an  hour  later,  sobbing  and  praying.  The  faithful 
creature  comforted  her  mistress  as  best  she  could,  then 
she  half  carried,  half  led  her  back  to  her  room.  The  letter 
written  to  his  father  by  Laurence  van  Rycke  contained  the 
following  brief  communication; 

"Find  fomeone  elfe,  My  Father,  to  help  you  lick  our 
Spanifh  tyrants'  boots.  I  cannot  do  it.  I  refufe  to  wed 
the  Daughter  of  that  Bloodhound  de  Vargas,  but  as  I  cannot 
live  under  Your  roof  and  dif obey  You,  I  will  not  return 
until  You  bid  Me  come." 

m 

This  had  occurred  early  this  morning;  it  was  now  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  Laurence  had  not  returned.  The 
levie  at  the  Town  Hall  was  timed  for  eight  o'clock,  and 
the  High-Bailiff  had  just  come  home  in  order  to  don  his 
robes  for  the  solemn  occasion. 

Clemence  van  Rycke  had  made  an  excuse  not  to  see  him 
yet:  like  all  weak,  indecisive  natures  she  was  hoping 
against  hope  that  something  would  occur  even  now  to 
break  Laurence's  obstinacy  and  induce  him  to  bow  to 
that  will  against  which  it  was  so  useless  to  rebel. 

But  the  minutes  sped  on,  and  Laurence  did  not  return, 
and  from  a  room  close  by  came  the  sound  of  Messire  van 
Rycke's  heavy  footstep  and  his  gruff  voice  giving  orders 
to  the  serving  man  who  was  helping  him  with  his  clothes. 
Another  hour,  or  perhaps  two  at  most,  and  she  would 


54  LEATHERFACE 

have  to  tell  her  husband  what  had  happened — and  the 
awful  catastrophe  would  have  to  be  faced.  As  she  sat 
in  the  high-backed  chair,  Clemence  van  Rycke  felt  as 
if  an  icy  chill  had  crept  into  her  bones. 

"Put  another  log  on  the  fire,  Jeanne,"  she  said,  "this 
autumn  weather  hath  chilled  me  to  the  marrow." 

Jeanne,  capable,  buxom  and  busy,  did  as  she  was  bid. 
She  did  more.  She  ran  nimbly  out  of  the  room  and  in  a 
trice  had  returned  with  Madame's  chaufferette — well  filled 
with  glowing  charcoal — and  had  put  it  to  her  mistress' 
feet:  then  she  lit  the  candles  in  the  tall  candelabra  which 
stood  on  a  heavy  sideboard  at  the  further  end  of  the  room, 
and  drew  the  heavy  curtains  across  the  window.  The 
room  certainly  looked  more  cosy  now :  Madame  only  gave 
one  slight,  final  shiver,  and  drew  her  shawl  closer  round 
her  shoulders. 

"Is  Messire  Mark  dressed  yet,  Jeanne?"  she  asked  wist- 
fully. 

"Messire  came  in  about  ten  minutes  ago,"  replied  the 
woman. 

"Let  him  know  that  I  wish  to  speak  with  him  as  soon 
as  he  can  come  to  me/' 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"You  have  seen  to  the  soldiers'  supper?" 

"They  have  had  one  supper,  Madame.  They  are  on 
duty  at  the  Town  Hall  till  eleven  o'clock;  then  they  are 
coming  home  for  a  second  supper." 

"Then  will  don  Ramon  de  Linea  sup  with  us,  think 
you?" 

"He  didn't  say/' 

"In  any  case  lay  his  place  ready  in  case  he  wants  to  sup. 
He'll  be  on  duty  quite  late  too,  and  it  will  anger  him  if 
his  supper  is  not  to  his  taste." 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  55 

"Whatever  I  do  will  never  be  to  the  commandant's  taste : 
he  didn't  like  his  room  and  he  didn't  like  the  dinner  I  had 
cooked  for  him.  When  he  heard  in  whose  house  he  was 
he  swore  and  blasphemed,  as  I  never  heard  any  one  blas- 
pheme before.  I  worked  my  fingers  to  the  bone  last 
night  and  this  morning  to  mend  his  linen  and  starch  his 
ruff,  but  even  then  he  was  not  satisfied." 

There  was  a  tone  of  bitter  wrath  in  Jeanne's  voice  as 
she  spoke.  Madame  drew  a  fretful  little  sigh,  but  she 
made  no  comment.  What  was  the  use?  The  Spanish 
soldiers  and  officers  quartered  in  the  houses  of  Flemish 
burghers  had  an  unpleasant  way  of  enforcing  their  wishes 
with  regard  to  food  and  drink  which  it  was  not  wise  to 
combat  these  days.  So  Clemence  van  Rycke  dismissed 
Jeanne,  and  remained  brooding  alone,  staring  into  the  fire, 
repeating  in  her  mind  all  that  Laurence  had  said,  looking 
into  the  future  with  that  same  shiver  of  horror  which  was 
habitual  to  her,  and  into  all  the  awful  possibilities  which 
must  inevitably  follow  Laurence's  hot-headed  act  of  re- 
bellion. 


IV 


And  as  she  sat  there  huddled  up  in  the  high-backed 
chair  it  would  be  difficult  to  realise  that  Clemence  van 
Rycke  was  still  on  the  right  side  of  fifty. 

She  had  married  when  she  had  only  just  emerged  out 
of  childhood,  and  had  been  in  her  day  one  of  the  brightest, 
prettiest,  gayest  of  all  the  maidens  in  the  city  of  Ghent. 
But  now  her  eyes  had  lost  their  sparkle,  and  her  mouth  its 
smile.  Her  shoulders  were  bent  as  if  under  a  perpetual 
load  of  care  and  anxiety,  and  in  her  once  so  comely  face 
there  was  a  settled  look  of  anxiety  and  of  fear.  Even  now, 


56  LEATHERFACB 

when  a  firm  footstep  resounded  along  the  tiled  corridor, 
she  lost  nothing  of  that  attitude  of  dejection  which  seemed 
to  have  become  habitual  to  her. 

In  answer  to  a  timid  knock  at  the  door,  she  called  a 
fretful  "Enter!"  but  she  did  not  turn  her  head,  as  Mark 
• — her  younger  son — came  close  up  to  her  chair.  He 
stooped  to  kiss  the  smooth  white  forehead  which  was  not 
even  lifted  for  his  caress. 

"Any  news?"  were  the  first  words  which  Clemence  van 
Rycke  uttered,  and  this  time  she  looked  up  more  eagerly 
and  a  swift  glimmer  of  hope  shot  through  her  tear-dimmed 
eyes. 

"Nothing  definite,"  replied  Mark  van  Rycke.  "He  had 
food  and  drink  at  the  hostelry  of  St.  John  just  before 
midday,  and  at  the  tavern  of  'The  Silver  Bell'  later  in  the 
afternoon.  Apparently  he  has  not  left  the  city  as  no 
one  saw  him  pass  through  any  of  the  gates — but  if 
Laurence  does  not  mean  to  be  found,  mother  dear,"  he 
added  with  a  light  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "I  might  as 
well  look  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack  as  to  seek  him  in  the 
streets  of  Ghent." 

The  mother  sighed  dejectedly,  and  Mark  threw  himself 
into  a  chair  and  stretched  his  long  legs  out  to  the  blaze: 
he  felt  his  mother's  eyes  scanning  his  face  and  gradually 
a  faint  smile,  half  ironical,  half  impatient,  played  round 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

To  a  superficial  observer  there  was  a  great  likeness  be- 
tween the  two  brothers,  although  Mark  was  the  taller  and 
more  robust  of  the  two.  Most  close  observers  would,  how- 
ever, assert  that  Laurence  was  the  better-looking;  Mark 
had  not  the  same  unruly  fair  hair,  nor  look  of  boyish 
enthusiasm ;  his  face  was  more  dour  and  furrowed,  despite 
the  merry  twinkle  which  now  and  then  lit  up  his  grey 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  57 

eyes,  and  there  were  lines  around  his  brow  and  mouth  which 
in  an  older  man  would  have  suggested  the  cares  and 
anxieties  of  an  arduous  life,  but  which  to  the  mother's 
searching  gaze  at  this  moment  only  seemed  to  indicate 
traces  of  dissipation,  of  nights  spent  in  taverns,  and  days 
frittered  away  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure. 

Clemence  van  Rycke  sighed  as  she  read  these  signs  and 
a  bitter  word  of  reproach  hovered  on  her  lips;  but  this 
she  checked  and  merely  sighed — sighing  and  weeping  were 
so  habitual  to  her,  poor  soul! 

"Have  you  seen  your  father?"  she  asked  after  a  while. 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied. 

"You  will  have  to  tell  him,  Mark.  I  couldn't.  I  haven't 
the  courage.  He  has  always  loved  you  better  than 
Laurence  or  me — the  blow  would  come  best  from  you." 

"Have  you  told  him  nothing,  then  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "and  he  has  to  meet  sefior 
de  Vargas  within  the  next  two  hours !" 

"Oh!  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell  him,  Mark!"  she 
moaned  piteously,  "I  was  always  hoping  that  Laurence 
would  think  better  of  it  all.  I  so  dread  even  to  think  what 
he  will  say  .  .  .  what  he  will  do.  .  .  ." 

"Laurence  should  have  thought  of  that,"  rejoined  Mark 
dryly,  "before  he  embarked  on  this  mad  escapade." 

"Escapade!"  she  exclaimed  with  sudden  vehemence. 
"You  can  talk  of  escapade,  when  .  ,  ." 

"Easy,  easy,  mother  dear,"  broke  in  Mark  good- 
humouredly,  "I  know  I  deserve  all  your  reproaches  for 
taking  this  adventure  so  lightly.  But  you  must  confess, 
dear,  that  there  is  a  comic  side  to  the  tragedy — there  always 
is.  Laurence,  the  happy  bridegroom-elect,  takes  to  his  heels 
without  even  a  glimpse  at  the  bride  offered  to  him,  whilst 


68  LEATHERFACE 

her  beauty,  according  to  rumour,  sets  every  masculine 
heart  ablaze." 

The  mother  gave  a  little  sigh  of  weariness  and  resigna- 
tion. 

"You  never  will  understand  your  brother,  Mark,"  she 
said  with  deep  earnestness,  "not  as  long  as  you  live.  You 
never  will  understand  your  mother  either.  You  are  your 
father's  son — Laurence  is  more  wholly  mine.  You  can 
look  on  with  indifference — God  help  you!  even  with  levity 
— on  the  awful  tyranny  which  has  well-nigh  annihilated 
our  beautiful  land  of  Flanders.  On  you  the  weight  of 
Spanish  oppression  sits  over  lightly.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
I  think  I  ought  to  thank  God  that  He  has  given  you  a 
shallow  nature,  and  that  I  am  not  doomed  to  see  both  my 
sons  suffer  as  Laurence — my  eldest — does.  To  him,  Mark, 
his  country  and  her  downtrodden  liberties  are  almost  a 
religion:  every  act  of  tyranny  perpetrated  by  that  odious 
Alva  is  a  wrong  which  he  swears  to  avenge.  What  he 
suffers  in  the  innermost  fibre  of  his  being  every  time  that 
your  father  lends  a  hand  in  the  abominable  work  of  perse- 
cution nobody  but  I — his  mother — will  ever  know.  Your 
father's  abject  submission  to  Alva  has  eaten  into  his  very 
soul.  From  a  gay,  light-hearted  lad  he  has  become  a  stern 
and  silent  man.  What  schemes  for  the  overthrow  of 
tyrants  go  on  within  his  mind,  I  dare  not  even  think.  That 
awful  bloodhound  de  Vargas — murderer,  desecrator,  thief 
— he  loathes  with  deadly  abomination.  When  the  order 
came  forth  from  your  father  that  he  should  forthwith 
prepare  for  his  early  marriage  to  the  daughter  of  that 
execrable  man,  he  even  thought  of  death  as  preferable 
to  a  union  against  which  his  innermost  soul  rose  in 
revolt." 

She  had  spoken  thus  lengthily,   very  slowly  but  with 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  59 

calm  and  dignified  firmness.  Mark  was  silent.  There 
was  a  grandeur  about  the  mother's  defence  of  her  beloved 
son  which  checked  the  word  of  levity  upon  his  lips.  Now 
Clemence  van  Rycke  sank  back  in  her  chair  exhausted 
by  her  sustained  effort.  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  while, 
and  Mark  could  not  help  but  note  how  much  his  mother 
had  aged  in  the  past  two  years,  how  wearied  she  looked 
and  how  pathetic  and  above  all  how  timid,  like  one  on 
whom  fear  is  a  constant  attendant.  When  he  spoke  again, 
it  was  more  seriously  and  with  great  gentleness. 

"I  had  no  thought,  mother  dear,"  he  said,  "of  belittling 
Laurence's  earnestness,  nor  yet  his  devotion.  I'll  even 
admit,  an  you  wish,  that  the  present  situation  is  tragic. 
It  is  now  past  six  o'clock.  Father  must  be  at  the  Town 
Hall  within  the  next  two  hours.  ...  He  must  be 
told,  and  at  once.  .  .  .  The  question  is,  what  can  we 
tell  him  to  .  .  .  to  ,  .  ." 

"To  soften  the  blow  and  to  appease  his  fury,"  broke  in 
Clemence  van  Rycke,  and  once  more  the  look  of  terror 
crept  into  her  eyes — a  look  which  made  her  stooping  figure 
look  still  more  wizened  and  forlorn.  "Mark,"  she  added 
under  her  breath,  "your  father  is  frightened  to  death  of 
the  Duke  of  Alva.  I  believe  that  he  would  sacrifice 
Laurence  and  even  me  to  save  himself  from  the  vengeance 
of  those  people." 

"Hush,  mother  dear !  now  you  are  talking  wildly.  Father 
is  perhaps  a  little  weak.  Most  of  us,  I  fear  me,  now  are 
weak.  We  have  been  cowed  and  brow-beaten  and  threat- 
ened till  we  have  lost  all  sense  of  our  own  manhood  and 
our  own  dignity." 

"You  perhaps,"  protested  the  mother  almost  roughly, 
"but  not  Laurence.  You  and  your  father  are  ready  to 
lick  the  dust  before  all  these  Spaniards — but  I  tell  you  that 


60  I^EATHERFACE 

what  you  choose  to  call  loyalty  they  call  servility;  they 
despise  you  for  your  fawning — men  like  Orange 
and  Laurence  they  hate,  but  they  give  them  grudging  re- 
spect .  .  ." 

"And  hang  them  to  the  nearest  gibbet  when  they  get 
a  chance,"  broke  in  Mark  with  a  dry  laugh. 


Before  Cle'mence  van  Rycke  could  say  another  word, 
the  heavy  footstep  of  the  High-Bailiff  was  heard  in  the 
hall  below.  The  poor  woman  felt  as  if  her  heart  stood 
still  with  apprehension. 

"Your  father  has  finished  dressing:  go  down  to  him* 
Mark,"  she  implored.  "I  cannot  bear  to  meet  him  with 
the  news." 

And  Mark  without  another  word  went  down  to  meet 
his  father. 

Charles  van  Rycke — a  fine  man  of  dignified  presence^ 
and  somewhat  pompous  of  manner — was  standing  in  the 
hall,  arrayed  ready  for  the  reception,  in  the  magnificent 
robes  of  his  office.  His  first  word  on  seeing  Mark  was 
to  ask  for  Laurence,  the  bridegroom-elect  and  hero  of  the 
coming  feast. 

"He  is  a  fine-looking  lad,"  said  the  father  complacently, 
"he  cannot  fail  to  find  favour  in  donna  Lenora's  sight.'* 

The  news  had  to  be  told:  Mark  drew  his  father  into 
the  dining-hall  and  served  him  with  wine. 

"This  marriage  will  mean  a  splendid  future  for  us  all, 
Mark,"  continued  the  High-Bailiff,  as  he  pledged  his  son 
in  a  tankard  of  wine :  "here's  to  the  happy  young  people 
and  to  the  coming  prosperity  of  our  house.  No  more 
humiliations,  Mark;  no  more  fears  of  that  awful  Inquisi- 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  61 

tion.  We  shall  belong  to  the  ruling  class  now,  tyranny 
can  touch  us  no  longer." 

And  the  news  had  to  be  told.  Clemence  van  Rycke  had 
said  nothing  to  her  husband  about  Laurence's  letter — so 
it  all  had  to  be  told,  quietly  and  without  preambles. 

"Laurence  has  gone  out  of  the  house,  father,  vowing 
that  he  would  never  marry  donna  Lenora  de  Vargas." 

It  took  some  time  before  the  High-Bailiff  realised  that 
Mark  was  not  jesting;  the  fact  had  to  be  dwelt  upon, 
repeated  over  and  over  again,  explained  and  insisted  on 
before  the  father  was  made  to  understand  that  his  son 
had  played  him  false  and  had  placed  the  family  fortunes  and 
the  lives  of  its  members  in  deadly  jeopardy  thereby. 

"He  has  gone !"  reiterated  Mark  for  the  tenth  time,  "gone 
with  the  intention  not  to  return.  At  the  reception  to-night 
the  bride  will  be  waiting,  and  the  bridegroom  will  not  be 
there.  The  Duke  of  Alva  will  ask  where  is  the  bride- 
groom whom  he  hath  chosen  for  the  great  honour,  and 
echo  will  only  answer  'Where  ?' ' 

Charles  van  Rycke  was  silent.  He  pushed  away  from 
him  the  tankard  and  bottle  of  wine.  His  face  was  the 
colour  of  lead. 

"This  means  ruin  for  us  all,  Mark,"  he  murmured, 
"black,  hideous  ruin;  Alva  will  never  forgive;  de  Vargas 
will  hate  us  with  the  hatred  born  of  humiliation.  .  .  . 
A  public  affront  to  his  daughter !  .  .  .  O  Holy  Virgin 
protect  us!"  he  continued  half -incoherently,  "it  will  mean 
the  scaffold  for  me,  the  stake  for  your  mother  .  .  ." 

He  rose  and  said  curtly,  "I  must  speak  with  your 
mother." 

He  went  to  the  door  but  his  step  was  unsteady.  Mark 
forestalled  him  and  placed  himself  against  the  door  with 
his  hand  on  the  latch. 


62  LEATHERFACE 

"It  means  black  ruin  for  us  all,  Mark,"  reiterated  the 
High-Bailiff  with  sombre  despair,  "I  must  go  and  speak  of 
it  with  your  mother." 

"My  mother  is  sick  and  anxious,"  said  Mark  quietly, 
"she  cannot  help  what  Laurence  has  done — you  and  I, 
father,  can  talk  things  over  quietly  without  her." 

"There  is  nothing  that  you  can  say,  Mark  .  .  .  there 
is  nothing  we  can  do  ...  save,  perhaps,  pack  up  a 
few  belongings  and  clear  out  of  the  country  as  quickly  as 
we  can  .  .  .  that  is,  if  there  is  time!" 

"Your  imagination  does  not  carry  you  very  far,  me- 
seems,"  quoth  Mark  dryly.  "Laurence's  default  is  not 
irreparable." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Am  I  not  here  to  put  it  right?" 

"What?— you?" 

"By  your  leave." 

"You,  Mark!" 


VI 


The  transition  from  black  despair  to  this  sudden  ray 
of  hope  was  too  much  for  the  old  man:  he  tottered  and 
nearly  measured  his  length  on  the  floor.  Mark  had  barely 
the  time  to  save  him  from  the  fall.  Now  he  passed  his 
trembling  hand  across  his  eyes  and  forehead:  his  knees 
were  shaking  under  him. 

"You,  Mark,"  he  murmured  again. 

He  managed  to  pour  himself  out  a  fresh  mug  of  wine 
and  drank  it  greedily:  then  he  sat  down,  for  his  knees 
still  refused  him  service. 

"It  would  be  salvation  indeed,"  he  said,  somewhat  more 
steadily. 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  63 

Mark  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  complete 
indifference. 

"Well!  frankly,  father  dear,"  he  said,  "I  think  that 
there  is  not  much  salvation  for  us  in  introducing  a  Spaniard 
into  our  home.  Mother — and  Laurence  when  he  comes 
back — will  have  to  be  very  careful  in  their  talk.  But 
you  seem  to  think  the  present  danger  imminent.  .  .  ." 

"Imminent,  ye  gods !"  exclaimed  the  High-Bailiff,  unable 
to  repress  a  shudder  of  terror  at  the  thought.  "I  tell  you, 
Mark,  that  de  Vargas  would  never  forgive  what  he  would 
call  a  public  insult — nor  would  Alva  forgive  what  he  would 
call  open  disobedience.  Those  two  men — who  are  all-pow- 
erful and  as  cruel  and  cunning  as  fiends — would  track  us 
and  hunt  us  down  till  they  had  brought  you  and  me  to 
the  scaffold  and  your  mother  to  the  stake." 

"I  know  that,  father,"  interposed  Mark  with  some  im- 
patience, "else  I  would  not  dream  of  standing  in  Laurence's 
shoes :  the  bride  is  very  beautiful,  but  I  have  no  liking  for 
matrimony.  The  question  is,  will  de  Vargas  guess  the 
truth;  he  hath  eyes  like  a  lynx." 

"No!  no!  he  will  not  guess.  He  only  saw  Laurence 
twice — a  fortnight  ago  when  I  took  him  up  to  Brussels 
and  presented  him  to  senor  de  Vargas  and  to  the  Duke: 
and  then  again  the  next  evening:  both  times  the  lights 
were  dim.  No!  no!  I  have  no  fear  of  that!  de  Var- 
gas will  not  guess!  You  and  your  brother  are  at  times 
so  much  alike,  and  donna  Lenora  hath  not  seen  Laurence 
yet." 

"And  you  did  not  speak  of  Laurence  by  name?  I 
shouldn't  care  to  change  mine." 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  presented  my  son  to  the  Duke 
and  to  senor  de  Vargas.  It  was  at  His  Highness'  lodgings : 


64  LEATHERFACE 

the  room  was  small  and  dark;  and  senor  de  Vargas  paid 
but  little  heed  to  us." 

"We  Netherlander  are  of  so  little  account  in  the  sight 
of  these  grandees  of  Spain,"  quoth  Mark  with  a  light  laugh, 
"and  in  any  case,  father,  we  must  take  some  risk.  So  will 
you  go  and  see  my  mother  and  calm  her  fears,  whilst  I  go 
and  don  my  best  doublet  and  hose.  Poor  little  mother! 
she  hath  put  one  foot  into  her  grave  through  terror  and 
anxiety  on  Laurence's  account." 

"As  for  Laurence  .  ,  ,"  exclaimed  the  High-Bailiff 
wrathfully. 

"Don't  worry  about  Laurence,  father,"  broke  in  Mark 
quietly.  "His  marriage  with  a  Spaniard  would  have  been 
disastrous.  He  would  have  fallen  violently  in  love  with 
his  beautiful  wife,  and  she  would  have  dragged  sufficient 
information  out  of  him  to  denounce  us  all  to  the  Inquisi- 
tion. Perhaps,"  he  added  with  good-humoured  indiffer- 
ence, "it  is  all  for  the  best." 

The  High-Bailiff  rose  and  placed  a  hand  upon  his  son's 
shoulder. 

"You  are  a  true  son  to  me,  Mark,"  he  said  earnestly, 
"never  shall  I  forget  it.  I  am  a  wealthy  man — more 
wealthy  than  many  suppose.  In  virtue  of  your  marriage 
with  that  Spanish  wench  you  will  be  more  free  from  taxa- 
tion than  we  Netherlanders  are:  I'll  make  over  the  bulk 
of  my  fortune  to  you.  You  shall  not  regret  what  you  have 
done  for  me  and  for  your  mother." 

"It  is  time  I  went  up  to  dress,"  was  Mark's  only  com- 
ment on  his  father's  kindly  speech,  and  he  quietly  removed 
the  paternal  hand  from  off  his  shoulder. 

"Hurry  on,"  said  the  High-Bailiff  cheerfully,  "I'll  wait 
until  you  are  ready.  I  must  just  run  up  to  your  mother 


THE  SUBJECT  RACE  65 

and  tell  her  the  good  news.  Nay!  but  I  do  believe  if  that 
hot-headed  young  rascal  were  to  turn  up  now,  I  would 
forgive  him  his  senseless  escapade.  As  you  say,  my  dear 
son,  it  is  all  for  the  best!" 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  RULING  CASTE 


DONNA  LENORA  DE  VARGAS  stood  beside  her  father  whilst 
he — as  representing  the  Lieutenant-Governor — was  receiv- 
ing the  homage  of  the  burghers  and  patricians  of  Ghent. 
This  was  a  great  honour  for  so  young  a  girl,  but  every 
one — even  the  women — declared  that  donna  Lenora  was 
worthy  of  the  honour,  and  many  a  man — both  young  and 
old — after  he  had  made  obeisance  before  sefior  de  Vargas 
paused  awhile  before  moving  away,  in  order  to  gaze  on 
the  perfect  picture  which  she  presented. 

She  was  dressed  all  in  white  and  with  extreme  simplicity, 
but  the  formal  mode  of  the  time,  the  stiff  corslet  and 
stomacher,  the  rigid  folds  of  the  brocade  and  high  starched 
collar  set  off  to  perfection  the  stateliness  of  her  finely  pro- 
portioned figure,  whilst  the  masses  of  her  soft  fair  hair 
crowned  her  as  with  a  casque  of  gold. 

When  the  brilliant  throng  of  Flemish  notabilities  and 
their  wives  had  all  filed  past  the  Duke  of  Alva's  repre- 
sentative and  had  all  had  the  honour — men  and  women 
alike — proud  patricians  of  this  ancient  city,  of  kissing  his 
hand,  the  High-Bailiff  respectfully  asked  for  leave  to  for- 
mally present  his  son  to  the  high  officers  of  state. 

All  necks  were  immediately  craned  to  see  this  presenta- 
tion, for  already  the  rumour  had  spread  abroad  of  the  com- 
ing interesting  engagement,  and  there  were  many  whispers 

66 


THE  RULING  CASTE  67 

of  astonishment  when  Mark's  tall  figure — dressed  in  sombre 
purple  silk  with  fine,  starched  ruff  of  priceless  Mechlin 
lace — came  forward  out  of  the  crowd.  Every  one  had 
expected  to  see  Laurence  van  Rycke  as  the  happy  bride- 
groom-elect, and  it  seemed  passing  strange  that  it  should 
be  Mark — happy-go-lucky,  easy-going  Mark,  the  wastrel 
of  the  family,  the  ne'er-do-well — who  had  been  selected 
for  the  honour  of  this  alliance  with  the  daughter  of  all- 
powerful  de  Vargas. 

Well!  perhaps  Laurence  never  would  have  stooped  be- 
fore a  Spaniard  as  Mark  had  done  quite  naturally ;  perhaps 
Laurence  was  too  avowedly  a  partisan  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  to  have  found  favour  in  beautiful  donna  Lenora's 
sight.  She  certainly  looked  on  Mark  van  Rycke  with  cool 
indifference;  those  who  stood  close  by  vowed  that  she 
flashed  a  glance  of  contempt  upon  him,  as  he  bowed  low  be- 
fore senor  de  Vargas  and  the  other  officers  of  state. 

"Your  eldest  son,  Messire?"  asked  one  of  these  seigniors 
graciously. 

"My  sons  are  twins,"  replied  the  High-Bailiff,  "and  this 
is  my  son  Mark." 

"Senor  del  Rio,"  said  de  Vargas  turning  to  his  colleague, 
"I  have  the  honour  to  present  to  you  Messire  Mark  van 
Rycke,  son  of  a  loyal  subject  of  our  King,  the  High-Bailiff 
of  Ghent." 

After  which  he  turned  to  speak  again  with  the  High- 
Bailiff,  and  don  Alberic  del  Rio  drew  Mark  into  a  brief 
conversation.  Excitement  in  the  gaily-dressed  throng  was 
then  at  its  height :  the  vague  feeling  that  something  unusual 
and  even  mysterious  was  occurring  caused  every  one's 
nerves  to  be  on  tenterhooks.  All  this  while  donna  Lenora 
had  been  quite  silent,  which  was  vastly  becoming  in  a  young 


68  LEATHERFACE 

girl,  and  now  her  father  came  up  to  her  and  he  was  closely 
followed  by  Mark  van  Rycke. 

The  momentous  presentation  was  about  to  take  place :  a 
man  and  a  woman — of  different  race,  of  different  upbring- 
ing, of  the  same  religion  but  of  widely  different  train  of 
thought — were  on  the  point  of  taking  a  solemn  engagement 
to  live  their  future  life  together. 

Those  who  stood  near  declared  that  at  that  moment 
donna  Lenora  looked  up  at  her  father  with  those  large, 
dark  eyes  of  hers  that  had  been  veiled  by  the  soft,  sweep- 
ing lashes  up  to  now,  and  that  they  looked  wonderfully 
beautiful,  and  were  shining  with  unshed  tears  and  with 
unspoken  passion.  They  also  say  that  she  was  on  the  point 
of  speaking,  that  her  lips  were  parted,  and  that  the  word 
"Father!"  came  from  them  as  an  appealing  murmur. 

But  the  next  moment  she  had  encountered  Vargas'  stern 
glance  which  swiftly  and  suddenly  shot  out  on  her  from 
beneath  his  drooping  lids — that  cruel,  evil  glance  of  his 
which  dying  men  and  women  were  wont  to  encounter  when 
their  bodies  were  racked  by  torture  and  which  gave  them 
a  last  shudder  of  horror  ere  they  closed  their  eyes  in  death. 
Donna  Lenora  too  shivered  as  she  turned  her  head  away. 
Her  cheeks  were  whiter  than  her  gown,  neither  had  her 
lips  any  colour  in  them,  and  the  kindly  Flemish  women  who 
stood  by  felt  that  their  motherly  heart  ached  for  this  beau- 
tiful young  girl  who  seemed  so  forlorn  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  pomp. 

ii 

The  curious  formalities  demanded  by  ancient  Flemish 
custom  had  now  to  be  complied  with,  before  Messire  van 


THE  RULING  CASTE  69 

Rycke  and  donna  Lenora  de  Vargas  could  be  publicly  an- 
nounced as  affianced  to  one  another. 

Mark  having  his  father  on  his  right  and  Messire  Jean 
van  Migrode,  chief-sheriff  of  the  Keure,  on  his  left,  ad- 
vanced toward  his  future  bride.  Young  Count  Mansfeld 
and  Philip  de  Lannoy  seigneur  de  Beauvoir  walked  immedi- 
ately behind  him,  and  with  them  were  a  number  of  gentle- 
men and  ladies — relatives  and  friends  of  the  High-Bailiff 
of  Ghent. 

In  like  manner  a  cortege  had  been  formed  round  the 
bride-elect:  she  was  supported  on  either  side  by  her  father 
and  by  don  Alberic  del  Rio,  his  most  intimate  friend,  and 
around  her  were  many  Spanish  seigniors  of  high  rank, 
amongst  whom  the  Archbishop  of  Sorrento,  who  was  on  a 
visit  to  Brussels,  and  don  Gonzalo  de  Bracamonte,  com- 
manding the  Governor's  bodyguard,  were  the  most  note- 
worthy. 

A  tense  silence  hung  over  the  large  and  brilliant  assem- 
bly, only  the  frou-frou  of  brocaded  gowns,  the  flutter  of 
fans,  and  up  above  in  the  vaulted  roof  the  waving  of  ban- 
ners in  the  breeze  broke  that  impressive  hush  which  invari- 
ably precedes  the  accomplishment  of  something  momentous 
and  irrevocable. 

And  now  the  High  Bailiff  began  to  speak  in  accordance 
with  the  time-honoured  tradition  of  his  people — wilfully 
oblivious  of  the  sneers,  the  sarcastic  smiles,  the  supercilious 
glances  which  were  so  conspicuous  in  the  swarthy  faces  of 
the  Spanish  grandees  opposite  to  him. 

"It  is  my  purpose,  seiior,"  he  began  solemnly,  and  speak- 
ing directly  to  don  Juan  de  Vargas,  "to  ask  that  you  do 
give  your  daughter  in  wedlock  to  my  son." 

And  don  Juan  de  Vargas  gave  answer  with  equal  so- 
lemnity : 


70  LEATHERFACE 

"Before  acceding  to  your  request,  Messire,"  he  said,  "I 
demand  to  know  whether  your  son  is  an  honourable  man 
and  possessed  of  goods  sufficient  to  ensure  that  my  daugh- 
ter continue  to  live  as  she  hath  done  hitherto,  in  a  manner 
befitting  her  rank." 

"My  son  Mark,  senor,"  thereupon  rejoined  the  High- 
Bailiff,  "is  possessed  of  ten  thousand  ducats  in  gold,  of 
twelve  horses  and  of  one  half -share  in  the  fleet  of  trading 
vessels  belonging  to  me,  which  carry  the  produce  of  Flem- 
ish farms  and  of  Flemish  silk-looms  to  the  ports  of  France, 
of  Italy  and  of  England.  Moreover,  six  months  after  my 
son's  marriage  I  will  buy  him  a  house  in  the  St.  Bavon 
quarter  of  this  city,  and  some  furniture  to  put  into  it  so 
that  he  may  live  independently  therein  and  in  a  manner 
befitting  his  rank." 

"My  daughter,  Messire,"  resumed  de  Vargas  still  with 
the  same  grave  solemnity,  "is  possessed  of  five  thousand 
ducats  and  of  the  prestige  attached  to  her  name,  which  next 
to  that  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor  himself  hath  more 
power  than  any  other  name  in  this  land." 

The  chief  sheriff  now  spoke: 

"And  on  the  day  of  the  marriage  of  Messire  van  Rycke," 
he  said,  "with  the  bride  whom  he  hath  chosen,  I  will  give 
him  sixteen  goblets  of  silver  and  four  silver  tankards." 

"And  on  the  day  of  the  marriage  of  donna  Lenora  de 
Vargas  with  the  bridegroom  chosen  for  her  by  her  father," 
said  don  Alberic  del  Rio,  "I  will  give  her  a  girdle  of  gold, 
a  necklace  of  pearls  and  three  rings  set  with  diamonds  and 
rubies." 

"I  will  give  the  bridegroom  two  silver  dishes  and  four 
gold  salt  cellars,"  came  in  solemn  fashion  from  young 
Count  Mansfeld. 

"To  the  bride  I  will  give  two  gold  bracelets  and  a  rosary 


THE  RULING  CASTE  71 

specially  blessed  by  His  Holiness,"  announced  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Sorrento. 

"To  the  bridegroom  I  will  give  two  gold  dishes  and  four 
silver  spoons,"  said  the  seigneur  de  Beauvoir. 

"To  the  bride  I  will  give  a  statue  of  Our  Lady  wrought 
in  ivory,  and  two  silken  carpets  from  Persia,"  said  don 
Gonzalo  de  Bracamonte. 

Whereupon  the  High-Bailiff  spoke  once  more : 

"My  son  Mark  hath  two  hundred  and  twenty  friends  and 
kindred  each  of  whom  will  present  him  with  a  suitable 
wedding  gift." 

"My  daughter  will  have  a  gift  from  our  Sovereign  Lord 
the  King,  from  the  Governor  of  the  Provinces  and  from 
the  Lieutenant-Governor,  and  from  fifteen  Spanish  gran- 
dees, three  of  whom  are  Knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece." 

"Wherefore,  O  noble  seignior,"  continued  the  High- 
Bailiff,  "I  do  ask  you  to  give  your  daughter  to  my  son  for 
wife." 

"Which  request  I  do  grant  you,  Messire,"  said  de  Var- 
gas, "and  herewith  make  acceptance  on  my  daughter's  be- 
half, of  your  son  Mark  to  be  her  husband  and  guardian." 

Don  Gonzalo  de  Bracamonte  now  handed  him  a  drawn 
sword,  a  hat,  a  ring  and  a  mantle :  de  Vargas  holding  the 
sword  upright,  placed  the  hat  on  the  tip  of  the  blade  and 
hung  the  ring  upon  a  projecting  ornament  of  the  hilt.  This 
together  with  the  mantle  and  a  piece  of  silver  he  then 
handed  over  to  Mark,  saying: 

•  "With  these  emblems  I  hereby  hand  over  to  you  the 
custody  of  my  daughter,  and  as  I  have  been  her  faithful 
custodian  in  the  past,  so  do  I  desire  you  to  become  her 
guardian  and  protector  henceforth,  taking  charge  of  her 
worldly  possessions  and  duly  administering  them  honour- 
ably and  loyally." 


72  LEATHERFACE 

In  the  meanwhile  the  chief  sheriff  had  in  similar  manner 
given  Mark  seven  gloves :  these  the  young  man  now  handed 
to  sefior  de  Vargas  in  exchange  for  the  emblems  of  his 
own  marital  authority,  and  saying  the  while : 

"I  accept  the  trust  and  guardianship  of  your  daughter 
Lenora  which  you  have  imposed  upon  me,  and  herewith 
I  plight  you  my  troth  that  I  will  henceforth  administer  her 
worldly  possessions  both  honourably  and  loyally." 

With  this  the  quaint  ceremonial  came  to  an  end.  The 
Spanish  seigniors  very  obviously  drew  deep  sighs  of  relief. 
The  Archbishop  and  don  Gonzalo  as  well  as  de  Vargas 
himself  had  studied  their  parts  carefully,  for  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  had  expressly  desired  that  the  betrothal 
should  be  done  with  all  the  formalities  and  ceremonies 
which  the  custom  of  the  Netherlands  demanded.  All  three 
seigniors  had  chafed  at  this  irksome  task — they  found  tor- 
rents of  ridicule  to  pour  upon  the  loutish  Netherlanders  and 
their  vulgar  and  unseemly  habits;  but  the  Duke  was  firm, 
and  obedience  was  obligatory.  Lenora  had,  of  course,  not 
been  consulted  on  the  subject;  she  was  just  the  sad  little 
bundle  of  goods  which  was  being  bargained  for,  for  the 
furtherance  of  political  intrigues,  together  with  her  five 
thousand  ducats,  her  golden  girdle  and  rosary  specially 
blessed  by  the  Pope.  She  stood  by  while  the  solemn  bar- 
gaining was  going  on,  the  centre  of  the  group — a  pathetic 
young  figure  in  her  white  gown,  a  curious  flush — maybe 
of  shame — upon  her  cheeks.  But  at  last  it  was  over  and 
de  Vargas  now  tufned  to  his  daughter. 

"Lenora,"  he  said,  "this  is  Mark,  the  son  of  the  High- 
Bailiff  of  Ghent;  the  alliance  which  you  are  about  to 
contract  with  him  is  a  source  of  great  satisfaction  to  me." 

Mark  in  the  meanwhile  had  stood  by — quite  impassive 
and  seemingly  indifferent — while  the  ceremony  of  betrothal 


THE  RULING  CASTE  73 

was  taking  place.  There  was  nothing  new  to  him  in  the 
solemn  speeches  delivered  by  his  father  and  his  friends, 
nor  in  those  which  the  Spanish  seigniors  had  learned  so 
glibly  by  heart;  he  had  more  than  once  been  present  at 
the  betrothal  of  one  or  other  of  his  friends,  and  these 
customs  and  ceremonials  were  as  familiar,  as  sacred  to  him, 
perhaps,  as  the  divine  service  of  his  Church.  Now  at 
de  Vargas'  last  words  he  advanced,  with  back  bent,  nearer 
to  his  beautiful  fiancee.  He  had  refrained  from  looking 
on  her  while  his  worldly  goods  and  hers  were  being  thus 
proclaimed  in  loud  tones  by  their  respective  friends,  be- 
cause he  felt  that  she — being  a  total  stranger — must  find 
his  country's  custom  either  ridiculous  or  irksome. 

But  now  when  he  straightened  out  his  tall  figure,  he 
suddenly  sought  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  compel  her  glance 
by  the  very  intentness  of  his  own. 

"Give  Messire  van  Rycke  your  hand,  Lenora,"  com- 
manded de  Vargas. 

And  the  girl — obediently  and  mechanically — stretched  out 
her  small,  white  hand  and  Mark  van  Rycke  touched  her 
finger  tips  with  his  lips. 

Every  one  noticed  how  closely  senor  de  Vargas  had 
watched  his  daughter  all  the  while  that  the  formal  cere- 
mony of  betrothal  was  taking  place,  and  that,  as  soon  as 
donna  Lenora  had  extended  her  hand  to  Messire  van  Rycke 
a  smile  of  intense  satisfaction  became  apparent  round  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

"And  now,  Messire,"  he  said  solemnly,  and  turning  once 
more  to  the  bridegroom-elect,  "it  is  my  pleasant  duty  to 
apprise  you  that  our  Sovereign  Lord  and  King  hath  him- 
self desired  that  I  should  be  his  mouthpiece  in  wishing 
you  lasting  happiness. 

"I  thank  you,  Messire,"  said  Mark  van  Rycke  quietly. 


74  LEATHERFACE 

"As  you  know,"  continued  de  Vargas  speaking  with  pa- 
ternal benevolence,  "it  is  the  Lieutenant-Governor's  earnest 
wish  that  we  should  hasten  the  wedding.  He  himself  hath 
graciously  fixed  this  day  sennight  for  the  religious  cere- 
mony— the  festival  day  of  Our  Lady  of  Victory — a  great 
and  solemn  occasion,  Messire,"  he  continued  unctuously, 
"which  will  sanctify  your  union  with  my  daughter  and 
confer  on  it  an  additional  blessing." 

"As  His  Highness  commands,"  rejoined  Mark  somewhat 
impatiently. 

He  had  made  several  efforts  to  meet  his  beautiful  bride's 
glance  again,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  steadily  averted  from 
his  now. 

Truly  so  cold  and  unemotional  a  bride  was  enough  to 
put  any  bridegroom  out  of  patience.  No  doubt  had 
Laurence  van  Rycke  stood  there  instead  of  Mark  there 
might  have  been  enacted  a  little  scene  of  ill-temper  which 
would  have  disturbed  don  Juan  de  Vargas'  unctuous  man- 
ner. But  Mark  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course:  he 
looked  supremely  indifferent  and  more  than  a  little  bored 
whilst  his  prospective  father-in-law  delivered  himself  of  all 
these  urbane  speeches.  He  had  obviously  been  deeply  struck 
at  first  by  donna  Lenora's  exquisite  beauty,  but  now 
the  effect  of  this  pleasing  surprise  had  worn  off,  he 
looked  down  on  her  with  cool  indifference,  whilst  a 
little  smile  of  irony  became  more  and  more  accentuated 
round  his  lips.  But  the  High-Bailiff  appeared  overjoyed; 
his  flat,  Flemish  face  gradually  broadened  into  a  huge,  com- 
placent smile,  he  leaned  on  the  arm  of  his  son  with  easy 
familiarity  and  every  one  felt  that — had  seflor  de  Vargas 
demanded  such  a  token  of  gratitude  and  loyalty — Mynheer 
Charles  van  Rycke  would  have  laid  down  on  the  floor  and 
licked  the  dust  from  Monseigneur's  slashed  shoes. 


THE  RULING  CASTE  75 


in 


At  last  the  interminable  ceremony  of  betrothal  was  over 
and  donna  Lenora  was  given  a  little  breathing  time  from 
the  formal  etiquette  which  surrounded  her  father  when- 
ever he  represented  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  and  which 
oppressed  this  poor  young  girl  physically  like  the  stiff  corslet 
which  she  wore. 

She  looked  around  her  a  little  wistfully :  her  father  was 
busy  conversing  with  the  High-Bailiff,  no  doubt  on  matters 
connected  with  the  respective  marriage- jointures :  all  around 
in  the  magnificent  hall,  under  the  high  roof  emblazoned  and 
decorated  with  the  arms  of  the  city  and  the  banners  of 
the  city  guilds,  a  noisy  throng,  gaily  dressed,  pressed, 
jostled  and  chattered.  The  ladies  of  Ghent — somewhat  un- 
wieldy of  figure  and  with  none  of  the  highly-trained  aesthetic 
taste  of  Spanish  civilisation — had  decked  themselves  out 
in  finery  which  was  more  remarkable  for  its  gorgeousness 
than  for  harmony  of  colour. 

The  lateness  of  the  season  had  proved  an  excuse  for 
wearing  the  rich  velvets  and  brocades  imported  from  Italy, 
cloth  of  gold  heavily  embroidered,  stomachers  wrought  in 
tinsel  threads  and  pearls,  hooped  petticoats  and  monster 
farthingales  moved  before  donna  Lenora's  pensive  eyes  like 
a  kaleidoscope  of  many  colours,  brilliant  and  dazzling.  The 
deep  window  embrasures  each  held  a  living  picture  grouped 
against  the  rich  background  of  heavy  velvet  curtains  or 
exquisite  carved  panelling ;  men  and  women  in  bright  crim- 
son, or  yellow  or  green,  the  gorgeous  liveries  of  one  or 
other  of  the  civic  corporations,  the  uniforms  of  the  guild- 
militia,  the  robes  of  the  sheriffs  and  the  wardmasters,  all 
looked  like  a  crowd  of  gaily  plumaged  birds,  with  here  and 


76  LEATHERFACE 

there  the  rich  trenchant  note  of  a  black  velvet  tunic  worn 
by  a  member  of  one  of  the  learned  bodies,  or  the  purple 
satin  doublet  of  a  Spanish  grandee.  The  Flemish  bour- 
geoisie and  patriciate  kept  very  much  to  itself — the  women 
eyeing  with  some  disfavour  the  stiff  demeanour  and 
sombre  clothes  of  the  Spaniards  who  remained  grouped 
around  the  person  of  don  Juan  de  Vargas.  There  was  also 
the  element  of  fear,  never  far  distant  when  the  Spanish 
officers  of  State  were  present.  They  personified  to  all  these 
people  the  tyranny  of  Spain — the  yoke  of  slavery  which 
would  never  again  be  lifted  from  the  land.  The  Nether- 
landers  feared  their  masters,  and  many  cringled  and  fawned 
before  them,  but  they  never  mixed  with  them;  they  held 
themselves  entirely  aloof. 

There  were  no  Spanish  ladies  here.  The  Duchess  of 
Alva  was  not  in  Flanders,  the  grandees  and  officers  of 
Alva's  army  had  left  their  wives  and  daughters  at  home  in 
Arragon  or  Castile;  the  stay  in  these  dour  and  unsympa- 
thetic Low  Countries  was  always  something  of  a  punish- 
ment to  these  sons  and  daughters  of  the  South,  who  hated 
the  grey  skies,  the  north-easterly  winds  and  perpetual  rains. 

Thus  donna  Lenora  found  herself  strangely  isolated.  The 
Flemish  ladies  banded  themselves  in  groups,  they  chatted 
together,  whispered  and  made  merry,  but  the  Spanish 
girl  who  had  stood  in  high  honour  beside  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor's  representative  was  not  one  of  themselves.  She 
was  slim  and  tall  and  graceful,  she  was  dressed  in  simple 
white;  above  all,  she  belonged  to  the  ruling  caste,  and 
though  many  a  kind-hearted  Flemish  vrouw  pitied  her  in  her 
loneliness,  not  one  of  them  thought  of  going  to  speak  to  her. 

Donna  Lenora  sighed  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears — 
with  tears  not  altogether  of  sorrow,  but  also  of  self-pity 
mingled  with  bitter  resentment.  Even  the  company  of 


THE  RULING  CASTE  77 

her  future  husband  might  have  been  acceptable  at  this 
moment,  when  she  felt  so  very  lonely. 
But  Mark  van  Rycke  was  no  longer  nigh. 


IV 


Then  suddenly  her  face  lit  up  with  joy,  the  colour 
rushed  to  her  cheeks,  and  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile. 

She  had  just  espied  in  the  brilliant  throng,  one  no  less 
brilliant  figure  which  was  slowly  pushing  its  way  through 
the  crowd  in  her  direction. 

"Ramon,"  she  whispered,  as  soon  as  the  young  man  was 
quite  close  to  her,  "I  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

"His  Highness,"  he  replied,  "has  given  me  command  of 
the  garrison  here;  I  arrived  last  night  with  my  regiment." 

"But  where  are  your  lodgings?" 

"At  the  house  of  those  thrice  accursed  van  Ryckes,"  he 
muttered  with  an  oath.  "The  billeting  was  arranged  with- 
out my  knowledge,  and  of  course  I  and  my  men  leave 
those  quarters  to-morrow.  Every  morsel  I  eat  in  that 
house  seems  to  choke  me." 

"Poor  Ramon !"  she  whispered  with  tender  pity.  "I  too 
have  been  unutterably  wretched  since  I  saw  you  in  Brus- 
sels." 

"I  couldn't  communicate  with  you  again,  sweetheart — 
and  this  to  my  great  grief — but  I  was  bundled  out  of 
Brussels  like  a  bale  of  goods,  and  here  I  am!  Imagine 
my  joy  when  I  realised  that  I  should  see  you  to-night." 

"Hush!"  she  murmured  quickly,  for  with  a  quick  im- 
pulse he  had  seized  her  hand  and  was  pressing  it  to  his  lips. 
"My  father  can  see  us." 

"What  matter  if  he  do,"  retorted  don  Ramon.     "He 


78  LEATHERFACE 

has  taken  you  from  me,  but  he  cannot  kill  my  love  .  .  . 
our  love,  Lenora,"  he  added  with  passionate  ardour — an 
ardour  in  which  he  himself  believed  for  the  moment,  since 
he  loved  Lenora  and  she  was  so  exquisite,  in  her  stateli- 
ness,  her  white  gown  and  that  casque  of  golden  hair  upon 
her  head. 

"You  must  not  say  that,  Ramon,"  she  said  with  earnest- 
ness that  was  far  more  real  than  his,  "you  must  try  and 
help  me  ...  and  not  make  my  sacrifice  altogether 
unbearable.  It  has  been  terrible,"  she  added,  and  a  curious, 
haunted  look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"It  has  been  the  most  damnable  thing  that  has  ever  been 
done  on  this  earth,  Lenora.  When  I  arrived  in  this  accursed 
city  last  night  and  quartered  myself  and  some  of  my  men 
in  the  house  of  the  High-Bailiff,  I  would  gladly  have  put 
the  whole  accursed  family  to  the  sword.  There  is  no  limit 
to  my  hatred  of  them — and  of  all  those  who  stand  between 
me  and  your  love.  I  have  hated  your  father,  Lenora,  ever 
since  he  parted  us.  ...  I  have  hated  Alva!  God 
help  me!  I  have  hated  even  the  King!" 

Ramon  spoke  in  a  low,  hoarse  murmur,  inaudible  to 
every  one  save  to  the  shell-like  ear  for  which  it  was  in- 
tended. With  irresistible  force  he  had  drawn  Lenora's 
arm  through  his  own,  and  had  led  her — much  against  her 
will — into  one  of  the  deep  window  embrasures,  where  heavy 
curtains  of  Utrecht  velvet  masked  them  both  from  view. 
He  pressed  her  to  sit  on  one  of  the  low  window  seats,  and 
through  the  soft-toned  stained  glass  the  dim  light  of  the 
moon  came  peeping  in  and  threw  ghostlike  glimmers  upon 
the  tendrils  of  her  hair,  even  whilst  the  ruddy  lights  of  the 
candles  played  upon  her  face  and  her  white  gown.  For 
the  first  time  to-night  the  young  man  realised  all  that  he 
had  lost  and  how  infinitely  desirable  was  the  woman  whom 


THE  RULING  CASTE  79 

he  had  so  airily  given  up  without  a  fight.  He  cursed  him- 
self for  his  cowardice,  even  though  he  knew  that  he  never 
would  have  the  courage  to  dare  defiance. for  her  sake. 

"Lenora,"  he  said,  with  passionate  intensity,  "ever  since 
your  father  and  the  Duke  of  Alva  made  me  understand 
that  they  were  taking  you  away  from  me,  I  have  been  won- 
dering if  it  was  humanly  possible  for  any  man  who  has 
known  you  as  I  have  done,  who  has  loved  you  as  I  love 
you  still,  to  give  you  up  to  another." 

"It  has  to  be,  Ramon,"  she  said  gently.  "Oh !  you  must 
not  think  that  I  have  not  thought  and  fought — thought  of 
what  was  my  duty — fought  for  my  happiness.  Now,"  she 
added  with  a  little  sigh  of  weariness,  "I  cannot  fight  any 
more.  My  father,  the  Duke  of  Alva,  the  King  himself 
in  a  personal  letter  to  me,  have  told  me  where  my  duty 
lies.  My  confessor  would  withhold  absolution  from  me 
if  I  refused  to  obey.  My  King  and  country  and  the  Church 
have  need  of  me  it  seems:  what  is  my  happiness  worth  if 
weighed  in  the  balance  of  my  country's  service?" 

"You  are  so  unfitted  for  that  sort  of  work,"  he  mur- 
mured sullenly,  "they  will  make  of  you  something  a  little 
better  than  a  spy  in  the  house  of  the  High-Bailiff  of 
Ghent." 

"That  is  the  only  thing  which  troubles  me,"  she  said.  "I 
feel  as  if  I  were  doing  something  mean  and  underhand. 
I  shall  marry  a  man  whom  I  can  never  love,  who  belongs  to 
a  race  that  has  always  been  inimical  to  Spain.  My  hus- 
hand  will  hate  all  those  whom  I  love.  He  will  hate  every- 
thing that  I  have  always  honoured  and  cherished — my  King, 
my  country,  the  glory  and  grandeur  of  Spain.  He  will 
rebel  against  her  laws  which  I  know  to  be  beneficent  even 
though  they  seem  harsh  and  even  cruel  at  times.  A  Nether- 


80  LEATHERFACE 

lander  can  never  have  anything  in  common  with  a 
Spaniard.  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  they'd  murder  us  if  they  could,"  the  young  man 
rejoined  with  a  careless  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "but  only 
in  the  dark  streets  or  from  behind  a  hedge." 

"The  King  is  very  angry  with  them,  I  know;  he  de- 
clared that  he  would  not  come  to  the  Netherlands  until 
there  is  not  a  single  rebel  or  heretic  within  its  shores." 

"The  terms  are  synonymous,"  he  retorted  lightly,  "and 
I  fear  that  His  Majesty  will  never  grace  this  abominable 
country  with  his  presence,  if  his  resolution  holds  good. 
They  are  a  stiff-necked  crowd,  these  Netherlanders — Cath- 
olics and  heretics,  they  are  all  rebels — but  the  heretics  are 
the  worst." 

Then,  as  she  said  nothing,  but  stared  straight  out  before 
her  at  this  crowd  of  people  amongst  whom  she  was  doomed 
to  live  in  the  future,  he  continued  with  a  tone  of  sullen 
wrath : 

"We  have  burnt  a  goodly  number  of  these  rebels,  but 
still  they  swarm." 

"It  is  horrible !"  exclaimed  the  young  girl  with  a  shudder. 

"Horrible,  my  dear  love?"  he  said  with  a  cynical  laugh, 
"it  is  the  only  way  to  deal  with  these  people.  Their 
arrogance  passes  belief;  their  treachery  knows  no  bounds. 
The  King's  sacred  person  would  not  be  safe  here  among 
them ;  the  Duke's  life  has  often  been  threatened ;  the  heretics 
have  pillaged  and  ransacked  the  churches!  No!  you  must 
not  waste  your  sympathy  on  the  people  here.  They  are  re- 
bellious and  treacherous  to  the  core.  As  for  me,  I  hate 
them  tenfold,  for  it  is  one  of  them  who  will  take  you 
from  me." 

"He  cannot  take  my  heart  from  you,  Ramon,  for  that 
will  be  yours  always." 


THE  RULING  CASTE  81 

"Lenora !"  he  whispered  once  more  with  that  fierce  ear- 
nestness which  he  seemed  unable  to  control,  "you  know 
what  is  in  my  mind? — what  I  have  thought  and  planned 
ever  since  I  realised  that  you  were  being  taken  from  me?" 

"What  is  it,  Ramon?" 

"The  Duke  of  Alva — the  King  himself — want  you  to 
work  for  them — to  be  their  tool.  Well!  so  be  it!  You 
have  not  the  strength  to  resist — I  have  not  the  power  to 
rebel!  If  we  did  we  should  both  be  crushed  like  miserable 
worms  by  the  powers  which  know  how  to  force  obedience. 
Often  have  I  thought  in  the  past  two  miserable  days  that 
I  would  kill  you,  Lenora,  and  myself  afterwards,, 
but  .  .  ." 

The  words  died  on  his  lips,  his  olive  skin  became  almost 
livid  in  hue.  Hastily  he  drew  a  tiny  image  from  inside  his 
doublet :  with  it  in  his  hand  he  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross, 
then  kissed  it  reverently. 

"You  would  die  unabsolved,  my  Lenora,"  he  whispered, 
and  the  girl's  cheeks  became  very  white,  too,  as  he  spoke, 
"and  I  should  be  committing  a  crime  for  which  there  is  no 
pardon  .  .  .  and  I  could  not  do  that,"  he  added  more 
firmly,  "I  would  sooner  face  the  fires  of  the  Inquisition 
than  those  of  hell." 

Superstitious  fear  held  them  both  in  its  grip,  and  that 
fanatical  enthusiasm  which  in  these  times  saw  in  the  hor- 
rible excesses  of  that  execrable  Inquisition — in  its  torture- 
chambers  and  scaffolds  and  stakes — merely  the  means  of 
killing  bodies  that  were  worthless  and  saving  immortal 
souls  from  everlasting  torture  and  fire.  Lenora  was  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot,  and  tears  of  horror  and  of  dread 
gathered  in  her  eyes.  Don  Ramon  made  a  violent  effort 
to  regain  his  composure  and  at  the  same  time  to  com- 
fort her. 


82  LEATHERFACE 

"You  must  not  be  afraid,  Lenora,"  he  said  quietly,  "those 
demons  of  blind  fury,  of  homicide  and  of  suicide  have  been 
laid  low.  I  fought  with  them  and  conquered  them.  Their 
cruel  temptations  no  longer  assail  me,  and  the  Holy  Saints 
themselves  have  shown  me  the  way  to  be  patient — to  wait 
in  silence  until  you  have  fulfilled  your  destiny — until  you 
have  accomplished  the  work  which  the  King  and  the  Church 
will  demand  of  you.  After  that,  I  know  that  the  man 
who  now  will  claim  what  I  would  give  my  life  to  possess 
— you,  Lenora — will  be  removed  from  your  path.  How  it 
will  be  done,  I  do  not  know  .  .  .  but  he  will  die, 
Lenora,  of  that  I  am  sure.  He  will  die  before  a  year  has 
gone  by,  and  I  will  then  come  back  to  you  and  claim  you 
for  my  wife.  You  will  be  free  then,  and  will  no  longer 
owe  obedience  to  your  father.  I  will  claim  you,  Lenora! 
and  even  now,  here  and  at  this  hour,  I  do  solemnly  plight 
you  my  troth,  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  man  whose  wife  you 
are  about  to  be." 

"And  of  a  truth,"  here  broke  in  a  pleasant  and  good- 
humoured  voice  with  a  short  laugh,  "it  is  lucky  that  I 
happened  to  be  present  here  and  now  and  at  this  hour 
to  register  this  exceedingly  amiable  vow." 


Don  Ramon  de  Linea  had  jumped  to  his  feet;  his  hand 
was  upon  his  sword-hilt ;  instinctively  he  had  placed  himself 
in  front  of  donna  Lenora  and  facing  the  intruder  who  was 
standing  beside  the  velvet  curtain,  with  one  hand  holding 
back  its  heavy  folds. 

"Messire  van  Rycke?"  he  exclaimed,  whilst  he  strove 
to  put  into  his  attitude  all  the  haughtiness  and  dignity  of 


THE  RULING  CASTE  83 

which  the  present  situation  had  undoubtedly  robbed  him. 

"At  your  service,  senor,"  replied  Mark. 

"You  were  spying  on  donna  Lenora  and  on  me,  I  see." 

"Indeed  not,  sefior.  I  only  happened  upon  the  scene — 
quite  accidentally,  I  assure  you — at  the  moment  when  you 
were  prophesying  my  early  demise  and  arranging  to  be 
present  at  my  funeral." 

"Are  you  trying  to  be  insolent,  sirrah  ?"  quoth  don  Ramon 
roughly. 

"Not  I,  senor,"  rejoined  Mark,  good-humouredly,  "I 
should  succeed  so  ill.  My  intention  was  when  I  saw  senor 
de  Vargas*  angry  glance  persistently  directed  against  my 
future  wife  to  save  her  from  the  consequences  of  his 
wrath,  and  incidentally  to  bear  her  company  for  awhile: 
a  proceeding  for  which — I  think  you  will  admit,  senor — 
I  have  the  fullest  right." 

"You  have  no  rights  over  this  gracious  lady,  fellow," 
retorted  the  Spaniard  with  characteristic  arrogance. 

"None,  I  own,  save  those  which  she  deigns  to  confer 
upon  me.  And  if  she  bid  me  begone,  I  will  go." 

"Begone  then,  you  impudent  varlet!"  cried  don  Ramon, 
whose  temper  was  not  proof  against  the  other's  calm 
insolence,  "ere  I  run  my  sword  through  your  miserable 
body.  .  .  ." 

"Hush,  Ramon,"  here  interposed  donna  Lenora  with  cool 
authority,  "you  forget  your  own  dignity  and  mine  in  this 
unseemly  quarrel.  Messire  van  Rycke  is  in  the  right.  An 
he  desires  to  speak  with  me  I  am  at  his  disposal." 

"Not  before  he  has  arranged  to  meet  me  at  the  back 
of  his  father's  house  at  daybreak  to-morrow.  Bring  your 
witnesses,  sirrah!  I'll  condescend  to  fight  you  fairly." 

"You  could  not  do  that,  seiior,"  replied  Mark  van  Rycke 
with  perfect  equanimity,  "I  am  such  a  poor  swordsman 


84  LEATHERFACE 

and  you  so  cunning  a  fighter.  I  am  good  with  my  fists, 
but  it  would  be  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  grandee  of  Spain 
to  measure  fists  with  a  Flemish  burgher.  Still — if  it  is 
your  pleasure  .  .  ." 

Although  this  altercation  had  been  carried  on  within  the 
depth  of  a  vast  window  embrasure  and  with  heavy  curtains 
to  right  and  left  to  deaden  the  sound  of  angry  voices,  the 
fact  that  two  men  were  quarrelling  in  the  presence  of  donna 
Lenora  de  Vargas  had  become  apparent  to  not  a  few. 

De  Vargas  himself,  who  for  the  past  quarter  of  an  hour 
had  viewed  with  growing  wrath  his  daughter's  intimate 
conversation  with  don  Ramon  de  Linea,  saw  what  was 
happening,  and  realised  that  within  the  next  few  moments 
an  exceedingly  unpleasant  scandal  would  occur  which  would 
place  don  Ramon  de  Linea — a  Spanish  officer  of  high  rank, 
commanding  the  garrison  in  Ghent — in  a  false  and  humiliat- 
ing position. 

In  these  days,  however,  and  with  the  perfect  organisation 
of  which  de  Vargas  himself  was  a  most  conspicuous  mem- 
ber, such  matters  were  very  easily  put  right.  A  scandal 
under  the  present  circumstances  would  be  prejudicial  to 
Spanish  prestige,  therefore  no  scandal  must  occur :  a  fight 
between  a  Spanish  officer  and  the  future  husband  of  donna 
Lenora  de  Vargas  might  have  unpleasant  consequences  for 
the  latter,  therefore  even  a  provocation  must  be  avoided. 

And  it  was  done  quite  simply:  don  Juan  de  Vargas 
whispered  to  a  man  who  stood  not  far  from  him  and  who 
was  dressed  very  quietly  in  a  kind  of  livery  of  sombre  pur- 
ple and  black — the  livery  worn  by  servants  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. The  man,  without  a  word,  left  de  Vargas'  side  and 
edged  his  way  along  the  panelled  walls  of  the  great  hall 
till  he  reached  the  window  embrasure  where  the  little  scene 
was  taking  place.  He  had  shoes  with  soles  of  felt  and 


THE  RULING  CASTE  85 

made  no  noise  as  he  glided  unobtrusively  along  the  polished 
floor.  Neither  Mark  van  Rycke  nor  don  Ramon  de  Linea 
saw  him  approach,  but  just  as  the  latter,  now  wholly  beside 
himself  with  rage,  was  fingering  his  glove  with  a  view 
to  flinging  it  in  the  other's  face,  the  man  in  the  purple  and 
black  livery  touched  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder  and  whis- 
pered something  in  his  ear.  Then  he  walked  away  as  silently, 
as  unobtrusively  as  he  had  come. 

But  don  Ramon  de  Linea's  rage  fell  away  from  him  like 
a  mantle;  the  glove  fell  from  his  nerveless  hand  to  the 
floor.  He  bit  his  lip  till  a  tiny  drop  of  blood  appeared 
upon  it;  then  he  hastily  turned  on  his  heel,  and  after  a 
deep  bow  to  donna  Lenora  but  without  another  word  to 
Mark  van  Rycke  he  walked  away,  and  soon  disappeared 
among  the  crowd. 


VI 


Donna  Lenora  was  leaning  back  against  the  cushioned 
window-sill,  her  hands  lay  in  her  lap,  slightly  quivering  and 
twisting  a  tiny  lace  handkerchief  between  the  fingers :  in 
her  eyes,  which  obviously  followed  for  some  time  the 
movements  of  don  Ramon's  retreating  figure,  there  was  a 
pathetic  look  as  that  of  a  frightened  child.  She  seemed 
quite  unaware  of  Mark's  presence,  and  he  remained 
leaning  back  against  the  angle  of  the  embrasure,  watch- 
ing the  girl  for  awhile,  then,  as  she  remained  quite  silent 
and  apparently  desirous  of  ignoring  him  altogether,  he 
turned  to  look  with  indifferent  gaze  on  the  ever-changing 
and  moving  picture  before  him. 

One  or  two  of  the  high  officers  of  State  had  retired,  and 
the  departure  of  these  pompous  Spanish  officials  was  the 


86  LEATHERFACE 

signal  for  greater  freedom  and  merriment  among  the 
guests  of  the  High-Bailiff  and  of  the  Sheriffs  of  the  city  of 
Ghent.  The  orchestra  in  the  gallery  up  above  had  struck 
up  the  measure  of  a  lively  galliarde  the  centre  of  the  hall 
had  been  cleared,  and  the  young  people  were  dancing  whilst 
the  graver  folk  made  circle  around  them,  in  order  to  watch 
the  dance. 

As  was  usual,  the  moment  that  dancing  began  and  hilarity 
held  sway,  most  of  the  guests  slipped  on  a  velvet  mask, 
which  partly  hid  the  face  and  was  supposed — owing  to 
the  certain  air  of  mystery  which  it  conveyed — to  confer 
greater  freedom  of  speech  upon  the  wearer  and  greater 
ease  of  manner.  There  were  but  few  of  the  rich  Spanish 
doublets  to  be  seen  now :  the  more  garish  colours  beloved 
of  the  worthy  burghers  of  Flanders  held  undisputed  sway. 
But  here  and  there  a  dark  figure  or  two — clad  in  purple 
and  black  of  a  severe  cut — were  seen  gliding  in  and  out 
among  the  crowd,  and  wherever  they  appeared  they  seemed 
to  leave  a  trail  of  silence  behind  them. 

Mark  was  just  about  to  make  a  serious  effort  at  con- 
versing with  his  fiancee,  and  racking  his  brain  as  to  what 
subject  of  gossip  would  interest  her  most,  when  a  man 
in  sombre  attire,  and  wearing  a  mask,  came  close  up  to  his 
elbow.  Mark  looked  him  quietly  up  and  down. 

"Laurence!"  he  said  without  the  slightest  show  of  sur- 
prise, and  turning  well  away  from  donna  Lenora  so  that 
she  should  not  hear. 

"Hush!"  said  the  other.  "I  don't  want  father  to  know 
that  I  am  here  .  .  .  but  I  couldn't  keep  away." 

"How  did  you  get  through?" 

"Oh!  I  disclosed  myself  to  the  men-at-arms.  No  one 
seemed  astonished." 


THE  RULING  CASTE  87 

"Why  should  they  be?    Your  escapade  is  not  known." 

"Has  everything  gone  of?  well?"  queried  Laurence. 

"Admirably,"  replied  the  other  dryly.  "I  was  just  about 
to  make  myself  agreeable  to  my  fiancee  when  you  inter- 
rupted me." 

"I'll  not  hinder  you." 

"Have  you  been  home  at  all?" 

"Yes.  My  heart  ached  for  our  dear  mother,  and  though 
my  resolution  was  just  as  firm,  I  wanted  to  comfort  her. 
I  slipped  into  the  house,  just  after  you  had  left.  I  saw  our 
mother,  and  she  told  me  what  you  had  done.  I  am  very 
grateful." 

"And  did  you  speak  to  father?" 

"Only  for  a  moment.  He  came  up  to  say  'good-night' 
to  mother  when  I  was  leaving  her  room.  She  had  told 
me  the  news,  so  I  no  longer  tried  to  avoid  him.  Of 
course  he  is  full  of  wrath  against  me  for  the  fright  I  gave 
him,  but,  on  the  whole,  meseemed  as  if  his  anger  was 
mostly  pretence  and  he  right  glad  that  things  turned  out 
as  they  have  done.  I  am  truly  grateful  to  you,  Mark," 
reiterated  Laurence  earnestly. 

"Have  I  not  said  that  all  is  for  the  best?"  rejoined  Mark 
dryly.  "Now  stand  aside,  man,  and  let  me  speak  to  my 
bride." 

"She  is  very  beautiful,  Mark!" 

"Nay!  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  that,  man!"  quoth  Mark 
with  his  habitual  good-humour;  "we  cannot  play  shuttle- 
cock with  the  lovely  Lenora,  and  she  is  no  longer  for 
you." 

"I'll  not  interfere,  never  fear.  It  was  only  curiosity  that 
got  the  better  of  me  and  the  longing  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  her." 


88  LEATHERFACE 


VII 


This  rapid  colloquy  between  the  two  brothers  had  been 
carried  on  in  whispers,  and  both  had  drawn  well  away 
from  the  window  embrasure,  leaving  the  velvet  curtain 
between  them  and  donna  Lenora  so  as  to  deaden  the  sound 
of  their  voices  and  screen  them  from  her  view. 

But  now  Mark  turned  back  to  his  fiancee,  ready  for  that 
tete-a-tete  with  her  which  he  felt  would  be  expected  of  him ; 
he  found  her  still  sitting  solitary  and  silent  on  the  low  win- 
dow seat,  with  the  cold  glint  of  moonlight  on  her  hair  and 
the  red  glow  of  the  candles  in  the  ballroom  throwing  weird 
patches  of  vivid  light  and  blue  shadows  upon  her  white  silk 
gown. 

"Do  I  intrude  upon  your  meditations,  senorita?"  he 
asked,  "do  you  wish  me  to  go?" 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  service,  Messire,"  she  replied 
coldly,  "as  you  so  justly  remarked  to  don  Ramon  de  Linea, 
you  have  every  right  to  my  company  an  you  so  desire." 

"I  expressed  myself  clumsily,  I  own,"  he  retorted  a 
little  impatiently,  "nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts 
than  to  force  my  company  upon  you.  But,"  he  added  whim- 
sically, "meseems  that — since  we  are  destined  to  spend 
so  much  of  our  future  together — we  might  make  an  early 
start  at  mutual  understanding." 

"And  you  thought  that  conversation  in  a  ballroom  would 
be  a  good  start  for  the  desirable  purpose?"  she  asked. 

"Why  not?" 

"As  you  say :  why  not  ?"  she  replied  lightly,  "there  is  so 
little  that  we  can  say  to  one  another  that  it  can  just  as 
well  be  said  in  a  ballroom.  We  know  so  little  of  one  an- 


THE  RULING  CASTE  89 

other  at  present — and  so  long  as  my  looks  have  not  dis- 
pleased you  .  .  ." 

"Your  beauty,  senorita,  has, no  doubt  been  vaunted  by 
more  able  lips  than  mine :  I  acknowledge  it  gratefully  and 
without  stint  as  an  additional  gift  of  God." 

"Additional?"  she  asked  with  a  slight  raising  of  her 
brows. 

"Aye!  additional!"  he  replied,  "because  my  first  glance 
of  you  told  me  plainly  that  you  are  endowed  with  all  the 
most  perfect  attributes  of  womanhood.  Good  women," 
he  added  quaintly,  "are  so  often  plain  and  beautiful  women 
so  often  unpleasant,  that  to  find  in  one's  future  wife  good- 
ness allied  to  beauty  is  proof  that  one  of  singularly 
blessed." 

"Which  compliment,  Messire,  would  be  more  acceptable 
if  I  felt  that  it  was  sincere.  Your  praise  of  my  looks  is 
flattering;  as  to  my  goodness,  you  have  no  proof  of  it." 

"Nay!  there  you  wrong  yourself,  senorita.  Are  you 
not  marrying  me  entirely  against  your  will,  and  because  you 
desire  to  be  obedient  to  your  father  and  to  the  Duke  of 
Alva?  Are  you  not  marrying  me  out  of  loyalty  to  your 
King,  to  your  country,  and  to  your  church  ?  A  woman  who 
is  as  loyal  and  submissive  as  that,  will  be  loyal  to  her 
husband  too." 

"This  will  I  strive  to  be,  Messire,"  rejoined  Lenora,  who 
either  did  not  or  would  not  perceive  the  slight  tone  of 
good-humoured  mockery  which  lurked  in  Mark  van  Rycke's 
amiable  speech.  "I  will  strive  to  be  loyal  to  you,  since 
my  father  and  the  King  himself,  it  seems,  have  desired 
that  I  should  be  your  wife." 

"But,  by  the  Mass,"  he  retorted  gaily,  "I  shall  expect 
something  more  than  loyalty  and  submission  from  so  beauti- 
ful a  wife,  you  know." 


90  LEATHERFACE 

"Next  to  the  King  and  to  my  faith,"  she  replied  coldly, 
"you  will  always  be  first  in  my  thoughts." 

"And  in  your  heart,  I  trust,  sefiorita,"  he  said. 

"We  are  not  masters  of  our  heart,  Messire." 

"Well,  so  long  as  that  precious  guerdon  is  not  bestowed^ 
on  another  man,"  said  Mark  with  a  sigh,  "I  suppose  that 
I  shall  have  to  be  satisfied." 

"Aye,  satisfied,"  broke  in  the  girl  with  sudden  vehemence. 
"Satisfied,  did  you  say,  Messire?  You  are  satisfied  to  take 
a  wife  whom  till  to-day  you  had  not  even  seen — who  was 
bargained  for  on  your  behalf  by  your  father  because  it 
suited  some  political  scheme  of  which  you  have  not  even 
cognizance.  Satisfied !"  she  reiterated  bitterly ;  "more  satis- 
fied apparently  with  this  bargaining  than  if  you  were  buy- 
ing a  horse,  for  there,  at  least,  you  would  have  wished  to 
see  the  animal  ere  you  closed  with  the  deal,  and  know 
something  of  its  temper.  .  .  .  But  a  wife!  .  .  . 
What  matters  what  she  thinks  and  feels?  if  she  be  cold  or 
loving,  gentle  or  shrewish,  sensitive  to  a  kind  word  or 
callous  to  cruelty?  A  wife!  .  .  .  Well!  so  long  as 
no  other  man  hath  ever  kissed  her  lips — for  that  would 
hurt  masculine  vanity  and  wound  the  pride  of  possession! 
I  am  only  a  woman,  made  to  obey  my  father  first,  and  my 
husband  afterwards.  .  .  .  But  you,  a  man!  .  .  . 
Who  forced  you  to  obey  ?  .  .  .  No  one !  And  you  did 
not  care.  .  .  .  This  marriage  was  spoken  of  a  month 
ago,  and  Segovia  is  not  at  the  end  of  the  world — did  you 
even  take  the  trouble  to  go  a-courting  me  there?  Did  you 
even  care  to  see  me,  though  I  have  been  close  on  a  week 
in  this  country  ?  .  .  .  You  spoke  of  my  heart  just  now 
.  .  .  how  do  you  hope  to  win  it?  .  .  .  Well!  let 
me  tell  you  this,  Messire,  that  though  I  must  abide  by  the 
bargain  which  my  father  and  yours  have  entered  into  for 


THE  RULING  CASTE  91 

my  body,  my  heart  and  my  soul  belong  to  my  cousin, 
Ramon  de  Linea!" 

She  had  thus  poured  forth  the  torrent  of  bitterness  and 
resentment  which  had  oppressed  her  heart  all  this  while: 
she  spoke  with  intense  vehemence,  but  with  it  all  retained 
just  a  sufficiency  of  presence  of  mind  not  to  raise  her  voice 
— it  came  like  a  hoarse  murmur  choked  at  times  with  sobs, 
but  never  loud  enough  to  be  heard  above  the  mingled  sound 
of  music  and  gaiety  which  echoed  from  wall  to  wall  of  the 
magnificent  room.  So,  too,  was  she  careful  of  gesture; 
she  kept  her  hands  pressed  close  against  her  heart,  save 
when  from  time  to  time  she  brushed  away  impatiently  an 
obtrusive  tear,  or  pushed  back  the  tendrils  of  her  fair  hair 
from  her  moist  forehead. 

Mark  had  listened  quite  quietly  to  her  impassioned  tirade : 
there  was  no  suspicion  now  in  his  grave  face  of  that  good- 
humoured  irony  and  indifference  which  sat  there  so 
habitually.  Of  course  he  could  say  nothing  to  justify  him- 
self:  he  could  not  explain  to  this  beautiful,  eminently  de- 
sirable and  sensitive  woman,  whose  self-respect  had  already 
been  gravely  wounded,  that  he  was  not  to  blame  for  not 
going  to  woo  her  before;  that  she  had  originally  been  in- 
tended for  his  brother,  and  that  all  the  reproaches  which 
she  was  pouring  upon  his  innocent  head  were  really  well 
deserved  by  Laurence  but  not  by  him.  He  felt  that  he 
was  cutting  a  sorry  figure  at  this  moment,  and  the  sensa- 
tion that  was  uppermost  in  him  was  a  strong  desire  to 
give  his  elder  brother  a  kick. 

He  did  his  best  with  the  help  of  the  curtain  and  his  own 
tall  figure,  to  screen  donna  Lenora  from  the  gaze  of  the 
crowd.  He  knew  that  senor  de  Vargas  was  still  some- 
where in  the  room,  and  on  no  account  did  he  want  a 
father's  interference  at  this  moment.  Whether  he  was 


92  LEATHERFACE 

really  very  sorry  for  the  girl  he  could  not  say;  she  cer- 
tainly had  given  him  a  moral  slap  on  the  face  when  she 
avowed  her  love  for  don  Ramon,  and  he  did  not  feel  alto- 
gether inclined  at  this  precise  moment  to  soothe  and  com- 
fort her,  or  even  to  speak  perfunctory  words  of  love,  which 
he  was  far  from  feeling,  and  which,  no  doubt,  she  would 
reject  with  scorn. 

Thus  now,  when  she  appeared  more  calm,  tired,  no  doubt, 
by  the  great  emotional  effort,  he  only  spoke  quite  quietly, 
but  with  as  much  gentleness  as  he  could  : 

"For  both  our  sakes,  donna  Lenora,"  he  said,  "I  could 
wish  that  you  had  not  named  Ramon  de  Linea.  It  grieves 
me  sorely  that  the  bonds  which  your  father's  will  are  im- 
posing upon  you,  should  prove  to  be  so  irksome;  but  I 
should  be  doing  you  an  ill-turn  if  I  were  to  offer  you  at 
this  moment  that  freedom  for  which  you  so  obviously 
crave.  Not  only  your  father's  wrath,  but  that  of  the  Duke 
of  Alva  would  fall  on  you  with  far  greater  weight  than  it 
would  on  me,  and  your  own  country  hath  instituted  methods 
for  dealing  with  disobedience  which  I  would  not  like  to  see 
used  against  you.  That  being  the  case,  sefiorita,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  return  to  his  usual  good-tempered  careless- 
ness, "would  it  not  be  wiser,  think  you,  to  make  the  best  of 
this  bad  bargain,  and  to  try  and  live,  if  not  in  amity,  at  least 
not  in  open  enmity  one  toward  the  other?" 

"There  is  no  enmity  in  my  heart  against  you,  Messire," 
she  rejoined  calmly,  "and  I  crave  your  pardon  that  I  did 
so  far  forget  myself  as  to  speak  of  don  Ramon  to  you. 
I'll  not  transgress  in  that  way  in  future,  that  I  promise 
you.  You  have  no  love  for  me — you  never  can  have  any, 
meseems:  you  are  a  Netherlander,  I  a  Spaniard:  our 
every  thoughts  lie  as  asunder  as  the  poles.  You  obey  your 
father,  and  I  mine;  our  hands  will  be  clasped,  but  our 


THE  RULING  CASTE  93 

hearts  can  never  meet.  Had  you  not  been  so  callous,  it 
might  have  been  different :  I  might  have  looked  upon  you 
as  a  friend,  and  not  a  mere  tool  for  the  accomplishment 
of  my  country's  destiny.  .  .  .  And  now  may  I  beg  of 
you  not  to  prolong  this  interview.  .  .  .  Would  we  had 
not  tried  to  understand  one  another,  for  meseems  we  have 
fallen  into  graver  misunderstandings  than  before." 

"When  may  I  see  you  again?"  asked  Mark  van  Rycke, 
with  coolness  now  quite  equal  to  hers. 

"Every  day  until  our  wedding,  Messire,  in  the  presence 
of  my  aunt,  donna  Inez  de  Salgado,  as  the  custom  of  my 
country  allows." 

"I  shall  look  forward  to  the  wild  excitement  of  these 
daily  meetings,"  he  said,  quite  unable  to  suppress  the 
laughter  which  danced  in  his  grey  eyes. 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  gentle  raillery,  but  dismissed 
him  with  a  gracious  nod. 

"Shall  I  tell  senor  de  Vargas,"  he  asked,  "that  you  are 
alone?" 

"No,  no,"  she  replied  hastily.  "I  prefer  to  be  alone  for 
a  little  while.  I  pray  you  to  leave  me." 

He  bowed  before  her  with  all  the  stiffness  and  formality 
which  Spanish  etiquette  demanded,  then  he  turned  away 
from  her,  and  soon  she  lost  sight  of  his  broad  shoulders 
in  the  midst  of  the  gayest  groups  in  the  crowd. 


VIII 


The  interview  with  her  future  husband  had  not  left 
donna  Lenora  any  happier  or  more  contented  with  her  lot. 
The  callousness  which  he  had  shown  in  accepting  a  fiancee 
like  a  bale  of  valueless  goods  was  equally  apparent  in  his 


94  LEATHERFACE 

attitude  after  this  first  introduction  to  her.  The  poor  girl's 
heart  was  heavy.  She  had  had  so  little  experience  of  the 
world,  and  none  at  all  of  men.  Already  at  an  early  age 
she  had  become  motherless ;  all  the  care  and  the  tenderness 
which  she  had  ever  known  was  from  the  father  whose 
pride  in  her  beauty  was  far  greater  than  his  love  for  his 
child.  A  rigid  convent  education  had  restrained  the  de- 
velopment of  her  ideals  and  of  her  aspirations;  at  nineteen 
years  of  age  the  dominating  thought  in  her  was  service  to 
her  King  and  country,  loyalty  and  obedience  to  her  father 
and  to  the  Church. 

In  the  crowded  ballroom  she  saw  young  girls  moving 
freely  and  gaily,  talking  and  laughing  without  apparently 
a  care  or  sorrow;  yet  they  belonged  to  a  subject  and  rebel 
race;  the  laws  of  a  powerful  alien  government  dominated 
their  lives;  fear  of  the  Inquisition  restrained  the  very  free- 
dom of  their  thoughts.  They  were  all  of  them  rebels  in  the 
eyes  of  their  King:  the  comprehensive  death-warrant  is- 
sued by  the  Duke  of  Alva  against  every  Netherlander — 
man,  woman,  and  child,  irrespective  of  rank,  irrespective 
of  creed,  irrespective  of  political  convictions — hung  over 
every  life  here  present  like  the  real  sword  of  Damocles: 
even  this  day  all  these  people  were  dancing  in  the  very 
presence  of  death.  The  thought  of  the  torture-chamber,  the 
gibbet,  or  the  stake  could  never  be  wholly  absent  from 
their  minds.  And  yet  they  seemed  happy,  whilst  she,  donna 
Lenora  de  Vargas,  who  should  have  been  envied  of  them 
all,  was  sitting  solitary  and  sad ;  her  lace  handkerchief  was 
soaked  through  with  her  tears. 

A  sudden  movement  of  the  curtain  on  her  left  roused 
her  from  her  gloomy  meditations.  The  next  moment,  a 
young  man — with  fair  unruly  hair,  eyes  glowing  through 
the  holes  of  the  velvet  mask  which  he  wore,  and  sensitive 


THE  RULING  CASTE  95 

mouth  quivering  with  emotion — was  kneeling  beside  her: 
he  had  captured  one  of  her  hands,  and  was  kissing  it  with 
passionate  fervour.  Not  a  little  frightened,  she  could  hardly 
speak,  but  she  did  not  feel  indignant  for  she  had  been 
very  lonely,  and  this  mute  adoration  of  her  on  the  part 
of  this  unknown  man  acted  like  soothing  balm  on  her 
wounded  pride. 

"I  pray  you,  sir,"  she  murmured  timorously,  "I  pray 
you  to  leave  me.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  up  into  her  face,  and,  through  the  holes  of 
the  mask,  she  could  see  that  his  eyes  were — like  hers — full 
of  tears. 

"Not,"  he  whispered  with  soulful  earnestness,  "till  I 
have  told  you  that  your  sorrow  and  your  beauty  have  made 
an  indelible  impression  on  my  heart,  and  that  I  desire  to 
be  your  humble  servitor." 

"But  who  are  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"One  who  anon  will  stand  very  near  to  you — as  a 
brother.  .  '.  ." 

"A  brother?    Then  you  are     .     .     .?" 

"Laurence  van  Rycke,"  he  replied,  "henceforth  your  faith- 
ful servant  until  death." 

Then  as  she  looked  very  perplexed  and  puzzled,  he  con- 
tinued more  quietly:  "I  stood  there — behind  the  curtain 
— quite  close — whilst  my  brother  spoke  with  you.  I  heard 
every  word  that  you  said,  and  my  heart  became  filled  with 
admiration  and  pity  for  you.  I  came  here  to-night  only 
because  I  wished  to  see  you.  I  looked  upon  you — without 
knowing  you — as  an  enemy,  perhaps  a  spy ;  now  that  I  have 
seen  you  I  feel  as  if  my  whole  life  must  atone  for  the 
immense  wrong  which  I  had  done  you  in  my  thoughts. 
You  cannot  guess — you  will  never  know  how  infinite  that 
wrong  has  been.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  would  wish  you 


96  LEATHERFACE 

to  know:  and  that  is  that  I  am  a  man  to  whom  happiness 
in  her  most  fulsome  beauty  stretched  out  her  hands,  and 
who  in  his  blindness  turned  his  back  on  her;  if  you  can 
find  it  in  your  heart  to  pity  and  to  trust  me  you  will  always 
find  beside  you  a  champion  to  defend  you,  a  friend  to  pro- 
tect you,  a  man  prepared  to  atone  with  his  life  for  the  des- 
perate wrong  which  he  hath  unwittingly  done  to  you." 

He  paused,  and  she — still  a  little  bewildered — rejoined 
gently :  "Sir,  I  thank  you  for  those  kind  words ;  the  kindest 
I  have  heard  since  I  landed  in  the  Low  Countries.  I  hope 
that  I  shall  not  need  a  champion,  for  surely  my  husband 
— your  brother,  Messire — will  know  how  to  protect  me 
when  necessary.  But  who  is  there  who  hath  no  need  of 
a  friend  ?  and  it  is  a  great  joy  to  me  in  the  midst  of  many 
disappointments,  that  in  my  husband's  brother  I  shall  have 
a  true  friend.  Still,  methinks,  that  you  speak  somewhat 
wildly.  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  wrong  that  you  or 
your  family  have  done  to  me,  and  if  your  mother  is  as 
kind  as  you  are,  why,  Messire,  mine  own  happiness  in 
her  house  is  assured." 

"Heaven  reward  you  for  those  gentle  words,  Sefiorita," 
said  Laurence  van  Rycke  fervently,  as  he  once  more  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it;  she  withdrew  it  quietly,  and  he 
had  perforce  to  let  it  go.  It  might  have  been  his  for 
always — her  tiny  hand  and  her  exquisite  person:  but  for 
his  hot-headed  action  he  might  have  stood  now  boldly  beside 
her — the  happy  bridegroom  beside  this  lovely  bride.  The 
feeling  of  gratitude  which  he  had  felt  for  Mark  when  the 
latter  chose  to  unravel  the  skein  of  their  family's  destiny, 
which  he — Laurence — had  hopelessly  embroiled,  was  now 
changed  to  unreasoning  bitterness.  What  Mark  had  ac- 
cepted with  a  careless  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he — Laurence 
• — would  now  give  his  life  to  possess.  Fate  had  indeed  made 


THE  RULING  CASTE  97 

of  her  threads  a  tangle,  and  in  this  tangle  he  knew  that  his 
own  happiness  had  become  inextricably  involved. 

He  could  not  even  remain  beside  donna  Lenora  now: 
he  was  here  unbeknown  to  his  father,  a  looker-on  at  the 
feast,  whereat  he  might  have  presided.  Even  at  this  mo- 
ment, sefior  de  Vargas,  having  espied  his  daughter  in  con- 
versation with  an  unknown  man,  was  making  his  way 
toward  the  window  embrasure. 

"Senorita,"  whispered  Laurence  hurriedly,  "that  ring 
upon  your  middle  finger  .  .  .  if  at  any  time  you  re- 
quire help  or  protection  will  you  send  it  to  me  ?  Wherever 
I  may  be  I  would  come  at  once  .  .  .  whatever  you  told 
me  to  do  I  hereby  swear  that  I  would  accomplish  .  .  \ 
will  you  promise  that  if  you  need  me,  you  will  send  me. 
that  ring?" 

And  she,  who  was  lonely,  and  had  no  one  to  love  her 
devotedly,  gave  the  promise  which  he  asked. 


CHAPTER  IV 

JUSTICE 


DON  RAMON  DE  LINEA  was  one  of  the  last  to  leave  the 
Town  House.  He  was  on  duty  until  all  the  Spanish  officers 
of  State  had  left  the  building,  and  it  was  long  past  mid- 
night before  he  wended  his  way  through  the  narrow  streets 
of  the  city  till  he  reached  the  house  of  the  High-Bailiff  in 
the  Nieuwstraate  not  far  from  the  new  bridge. 

The  outward  appearance  of  the  house  suggested  that 
most  of  its  occupants  were  abed,  although  there  was  a 
light  in  one  of  the  windows  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
through  the  uncurtained  casement  don  Ramon  caught  sight 
of  the  High-Bailiff  and  his  two  sons  sitting  together  over 
a  final  cup  of  wine. 

All  the  pent-up  wrath  against  Mark  van  Rycke,  which 
Ramon  had  been  forced  to  keep  in  check  under  the  eye 
of  senor  de  Vargas,  gave  itself  vent  now  in  a  comprehensive 
curse,  and  forgetting  every  code  of  decency  toward  his 
host  and  hostess  he  went  up  to  the  front  door  and  gave 
the  heavy  oak  panels  a  series  of  violent  kicks  with  his 
boot. 

"Hey  there !"  he  shouted  roughly,  "open,  you  confounded 
louts !  What  manners  are  these  to  close  your  doors  against 
the  soldiers  of  the  King?" 

He  had  not  finished  swearing  when  the  serving  man's 
shuffling  footsteps  were  heard  crossing  the  tiled  hall.  The 

•  98 


JUSTICE  99 

next  moment  there  was  a  great  rattle  of  bolts  being  drawn 
and  chains  being  unhung,  whereupon  don  Ramon — still  im- 
patient and  wrathful — gave  a  final  kick  to  the  door,  and 
since  Pierre  had  already  lifted  the  latch,  it  flew  open  and 
nearly  knocked  the  poor  man  down  with  its  weight. 

"Curse  you  all  for  a  set  of  lazy  louts,"  shouted  don 
Ramon  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "Here,  fellow,"  he  added 
flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  "take  off  my  boots  and 
cloak." 

He  held  out  his  leg,  and  Pierre,  dutiful  and  obedient, 
took  off  the  long  boots  of  untanned  leather  which  pro- 
tected the  slashed  shoes  and  silk  trunk-hose  beneath,  against 
the  mud  of  the  streets. 

"Where  is  your  master?"  queried  the  Spaniard  roughly. 

"In  the  dining  hall,  so  please  you,  senor,"  replied  the 
man. 

"And  my  men  ?" 

"They  went  to  the  tavern  over  the  way  about  an  hour 
ago,  after  they  had  their  supper — and  they  have  not  yet 
returned.  They  are  making  merry  there,  senor,"  added 
old  Pierre  somewhat  wistfully. 

And — as  if  in  direct  confirmation  of  the  man's  words — 
there  came  from  the  tavern  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  a  deafening  noise  of  wild  hilarity.  The  peace  of 
the  night  was  broken  and  made  hideous  by  hoarse  shouts 
and  laughter,  a  deafening  crash  as  of  broken  glass,  all 
intermixed  with  a  bibulous  song,  sung  out  of  tune  in  a 
chorus  of  male  voices,  and  the  clapping  of  empty  mugs 
against  wooden  tables. 

Don  Ramon  cursed  again,  but  this  time  under  his  breath. 
The  order  had  gone  forth  recently  from  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor  himself  that  the  Spanish  troops  quartered  in 
Flemish  cities  were  to  behave  themselves  in  a  sober  and 


100  LEATHERFACE 

becoming  manner.  The  tavern  of  the  "Three  Weavers" 
being  situated  just  opposite  the  house  of  the  High-Bailiff, 
it  was  more  than  likely  that  the  latter  would  take  it  upon 
himself  to  complain  of  the  ribaldry  and  uproar  which  was 
disturbing  his  rest,  and  as  the  High-Bailiff  was  in  high 
favour  just  now  a  severe  reprimand  for  don  Ramon  might 
ensue,  which  prospect  did  not  appeal  to  him  in  the  least. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated  whether  he  would  not  go 
back  across  the  road  and  order  the  men  to  be  silent;  but 
as  luck  or  fate  would  have  it,  at  that  very  moment  the 
High-Bailiff  opened  the  door  of  the  dining-room  and 
stepped  out  into  the  hall.  Seeing  the  young  Spaniard  stand- 
ing there,  sullen  and  irresolute,  he  bade  him  courteously  to 
come  and  join  him  and  his  two  sons  in  a  tankard  of  wine. 

Don  Ramon  accepted  the  invitation.  The  spirit  of  quar- 
relsome fury  still  brooded  within  him,  and  it  was  that  spirit 
which  made  him  wish  to  meet  Mark  van  Rycke  again  and 
either  provoke  him  into  that  quarrel  which  senor  de  Vargas' 
timely  intervention  had  prevented  before,  or,  at  any  rate, 
to  annoy  and  humiliate  him  with  those  airs  of  masterful- 
ness and  superiority  which  the  Spaniards  knew  so  well 
how  to  wield. 


ii 


Mark  and  Laurence  greeted  their  father's  guest  with 
utmost  politeness.  The  former  offered  him  a  tankard  of 
wine  which  don  Ramon  pushed  away  so  roughly  that  the 
wine  was  spilled  over  the  floor  and  over  Mark  van  Rycke's 
clothes,  whereupon  the  Spaniard  swore  as  was  his  wont  and 
murmured  something  about  "a  clumsy  lout!" 

Laurence  sitting  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  clenched 
his  fists  till  the  knuckles  shone  like  ivory  and  the  skin  was 


JUSTICE  101 

so  taut  that  it  threatened  to  crack;  the  blood  rushed  up 
to  his  cheeks  and  his  eyes  glowed  with  the  fire  of  bitter  re- 
sentment and  of  indignation  not  easily  kept  under  con- 
trol. But  Mark  ignored  the  insult,  his  face  expressed  noth- 
ing but  good-humoured  indifference,  and  a  careless  indul- 
gence for  the  vagaries  of  a  guest,  like  one  would  feel  for 
those  of  an  irresponsible  child.  As  for  the  High-Bailiff,  he 
still  beamed  with  amiability  and  the  determination  to 
please  his  Spanish  masters  in  every  way  that  lay  in  his 
power. 

"We  would  ask  you,  sefior,"  said  Laurence  after  a  slight 
pause  during  which  he  had  made  almost  superhuman  efforts 
to  regain  his  self-control,  "kindly  to  admonish  the  soldiery 
in  the  tavern  yonder.  My  mother  is  an  invalid,  the  noise 
that  the  men  make  is  robbing  her  of  sleep." 

"The  men  will  not  stay  at  the  tavern  much  longer,"  said 
don  Ramon  haughtily,  "they  are  entitled  to  a  little  amuse- 
ment after  their  arduous  watch  at  the  Town  Hall.  An 
Madame  van  Rycke  will  exercise  a  little  patience,  she  will 
get  to  sleep  within  the  hour  and  can  lie  abed  a  little  longer 
to-morrow." 

"It  is  not  so  much  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  senor,"  here 
interposed  the  High-Bailiff  urbanely,  noting  with  horror 
that  his  son  was  about  to  lose  his  temper,  "neither  I  nor  my 
sons  would  wish  to  interfere  with  the  innocent  pleasures 
of  these  brave  men,  but  .  .  ." 

"Then  what  is  the  pother  about,  sirrah?"  queried  the 
Spaniard  with  well-studied  insolence. 

"Only  that  .  .  ."  murmured  the  unfortunate  High- 
Bailiff  diffidently,  "only  that  .  .  ." 

"There  are  only  two  women  in  charge  of  the  tavern 
at  this  hour,"  broke  in  Mark  quietly,  "two  young  girls, 
whose  father  was  arrested  this  morning  for  attending  a 


102  LEATHERFACE 

camp-meeting  outside  the  city.  The  girls  are  timid  and 
unprotected,  therefore  we  entreat  that  you,  senor,  do  put 
a  stop  to  the  soldiers'  brawling  and  allow  the  tavern  to  be 
closed  at  this  late  hour  of  the  night." 

Don  Ramon  threw  back  his  head  and  burst  into  loud 
and  affected  laughter. 

"By  the  Mass,  Messire!"  he  said,  "I  find  you  vastly 
amusing  to  be  thus  pleading  for  a  pair  of  heretics.  Did 
you  perchance  not  know  that  to  attend  camp  meetings  is 
punishable  by  death?  If  people  want  to  hear  a  sermon 
they  should  go  to  church  where  the  true  doctrine  is  preached. 
Nothing  but  rebellion  and  high-treason  are  preached  at 
those  meetings." 

"We  were  pleading  for  two  defenceless  girls,"  rejoined 
Laurence,  whose  voice  shook  with  suppressed  passion.  Even 
he  dared  not  say  anything  more  on  the  dangerous  subject 
of  religious  controversy  which  Don  Ramon  had  obviously 
brought  forward  with  the  wish  to  provoke  a  discussion — 
lest  an  unguarded  word  brought  disaster  upon  his  house. 

"Pshaw!"  retorted  don  Ramon  roughly,  "surely  you 
would  not  begrudge  those  fine  soldiers  a  little  sport  ?  Two 
pretty  girls — did  you  not  say  they  were  pretty? — are  not 
to  be  found  in  every  street  of  this  confounded  city:  and 
by  the  Mass!  I  feel  the  desire  to  go  and  have  a  look  at 
the  wenches  myself." 

He  rose,  yawned  and  stretched.  Laurence  was  white 
with  passion:  there  was  a  glow  of  deadly  hate  in  his  eyes 
— of  fury  that  was  almost  maniacal:  with  a  mechanical 
gesture  he  tore  at  the  ruff  at  his  throat.  Don  Ramon 
looked  on  him  with  contempt  in  his  eyes  and  a  malicious 
smile  round  his  full  lips.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
laughed  softly — ironically  to  himself.  The  next  moment 
Laurence,  unable  to  control  himself,  had  sprung  to  his  feet : 


JUSTICE  103 

he  would  have  been  at  the  other's  throat,  but  that  Mark 
who  had  been  quietly  watching  him  was  just  in  time  to 
seize  him  round  the  shoulders  and  thus  to  prevent  murder 
from  being  done. 

Don  Ramon  had  not  failed  to  notice  Laurence's  unrea- 
soning rage,  nor  the  gesture  which  for  one  instant  had 
threatened  his  own  life,  but  he  showed  not  the  slightest  sign 
of  fear.  The  sarcastic  laugh  did  not  wholly  die  down  on 
his  lips,  nor  did  the  look  of  contempt  fade  out  of  his  eyes. 
He  looked  on — quite  unmoved — whilst  Mark  succeeded, 
if  not  in  pacifying  his  brother,  at  least  in  forcing  him  back 
to  his  seat  and  regaining  some  semblance  of  control  over 
himself.  The  High-Bailiff,  white  as  a  sheet,  was  holding 
out  his  hands  in  a  pathetic  and  futile  appeal  to  his  son  and 
to  the  Spaniard.  Then  as  Laurence  overcome  with  the 
shame  of  his  own  impotence  threw  himself  half  across  the 
table  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  don  Ramon  said 
coldly : 

"Your  senseless  rage  has  done  you  no  good,  my  friend. 
After  half  a  century,  you  Netherlanders  have,  it  seems,  yet 
to  learn  that  it  is  not  wise  to  threaten  a  Spanish  gentle- 
man either  by  word  or  gesture.  Perhaps  I  would  have  pro- 
tected the  two  females  in  the  tavern  yonder  from  the  bru- 
tality of  my  soldiery — perhaps  I  wouldn't — I  don't  know! 
But  now,  since  you  chose  to  raise  an  insolent  hand  against 
me  I  certainly  will  not  raise  a  finger  to  save  them  from  any 
outrage — I'll  even  countenance  my  men's  behaviour  by  my 
presence  in  the  tavern.  Understand?  That  is  what  you 
have  gained  by  your  impudence — both  you  and  your  brother 
— for  with  him  too  I  have  a  score  to  settle  for  impudence 
that  literally  passes  belief.  If  your  father  were  not  so 
well-accredited  as  a  good  Catholic  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the 
King,  I  would  .  .  .  But  enough  of  this.  Let  the  les- 


104  LEATHERFACE 

son  be  a  fruitful  one:  and  you  Messire  High-Bailiff — an 
you  are  wise — will  inculcate  into  your  sons  a  clearer  no- 
tion of  respect,  duty  and  obedience  toward  their  su- 
periors." 

He  nodded  curtly  to  the  High-Bailiff,  took  no  further 
notice  of  Mark  and  Laurence,  but  turned  on  his  heel  and 
went  out  of  the  room  slamming  the  door  behind  him. 

After  he  had  gone,  the  three  men  remained  silent  for 
a  while:  the  High-Bailiff  feeling  deeply  resentful  against 
his  son,  would  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  Mark  was  lean- 
ing against  the  window  sill  and  staring  moodily  out  into 
the  darkness.  Laurence  still  held  his  head  buried  in  his 
hands. 

The  Spaniard's  loud  voice  was  heard  giving  orders  to 
Pierre,  then  there  came  the  sound  of  bolts  being  pushed 
back,  of  the  heavy  oaken  door  groaning  on  its  hinges,  then 
the  reclosing  of  the  door  and  Pierre's  shuffling  footsteps 
crossing  the  hall. 

Laurence  rose  and  passed  the  back  of  his  hand  once  or 
twice  across  his  eyes :  "And  to  think,"  he  murmured  dully, 
"that  brutes  such  as  that  are  allowed  to  live.  Has  God 
turned  the  light  of  His  countenance  quite  away  from  us?" 
He  remained  standing  for  a  while  gazing  out  blankly  before 
him,  and  with  trembling  fingers  he  traced  intricate  patterns 
upon  the  table-top.  Then  with  a  heavy  sigh  he  bade  father 
and  brother  "good-night"  and  quietly  went  out  of  the  room. 

"Mark!"  said  the  High-Bailiff  quickly,  "keep  an  eye  on 
that  hot-headed  young  ruffian.  In  his  present  state  of  mind 
there's  no  knowing  what  he  might  do." 

Whereupon  Mark,  in  his  usual  good-tempered,  indolent 
way  also  bade  his  father  good-night,  and  followed  his 
brother  out  of  the  room. 


JUSTICE  105 


The  scene  which  met  don  Ramon's  eyes  when  he  entered 
the  tavern  of  the  "Three  Weavers" — which  was  situate, 
be  it  remembered,  almost  opposite  the  house  of  the  High- 
Bailiff  of  Ghent—was,  alas!  not  an  unusual  one  these 
days. 

For  five  years  now — ever  since  the  arrival  of  the  Duke 
of  Alva  in  the  Low  Countries  as  Lieutenant-Governor  and 
Captain-General  of  the  Forces — the  Netherlander  had  pro- 
tested with  all  the  strength  and  the  insistence  at  their  com- 
mand against  the  quartering  of  Spanish  troops  upon  the 
inhabitants  of  their  free  cities.  The  practice  was  a  flagrant 
violation  of  all  the  promises  made  to  them  by  the  King 
himself,  and  an  outrage  against  their  charters  and  liberties 
which  the  King  had  sworn  to  respect.  But  it  also  was  a 
form  of  petty  tyranny  which  commended  itself  specially  to 
Alva,  and  to  the  Spanish  ministers  and  councillors  of  State 
who  liked  above  all  to  humiliate  these  Dutch  and  Flemish 
free  men  and  cow  them  into  complete  submission  and  silent 
acquiescence  by  every  means  which  their  cruel  and  tor- 
tuous minds  could  invent. 

Don  Ramon  knew  quite  well  that  he  could  offer  no 
greater  insult  to  the  High-Bailiff  of  Ghent  and  to  his  sons 
— or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  to  the  whole  city — than  to 
allow  his  soldiery  to  behave  in  a  scandalous  and  ribald  man- 
ner in  one  of  the  well-accredited  and  well-conducted  taverns 
of  the  town.  And  to  him  this  knowledge  gave  but  addi- 
tional zest  to  what  otherwise  would  have  been  a  tame  adven- 
ture— two  women  to  bully  and  eight  men  to  do  it  was  not 
nearly  as  exciting  as  he  could  wish.  But  that  fool  Laurence 


106  LEATHERFACE 

van  Rycke  had  to  be  punished — and  incidentally  don  Ramon 
hoped  that  Mark  would  feel  that  the  punishment  was  meted 
out  to  him  more  than  to  his  brother. 

On  the  whole  don  Ramon  de  Linea  felt,  as  he  entered 
the  tap-room  of  the  "Three  Weavers,"  that  the  presence 
of  the  two  van  Ryckes  was  all  that  he  needed  to  make  his 
enjoyment  complete. 

That  the  Spanish  provost  and  the  six  men  under  his 
command  were  already  drunk  there  was  no  doubt :  some  of 
them  were  sitting  at  a  long  trestle  table,  sprawling  across 
it,  lolling  up  against  one  another,  some  singing  scraps  of 
bibulous  songs,  others  throwing  coarse,  obscene  jests  across 
the  table.  Two  men  seemed  to  be  on  guard  at  the  door, 
whilst  one  and  all  were  clamouring  for  more  wine. 

"Curse  you,  you  .  .  ."  the  provost  was  shouting  at 
the  top  of  his  voice  when  don  Ramon  entered  the  tap-roorn, 
"why  don't  you  bring  another  bottle  of  wine?" 

Two  women  were  standing  at  the  further  end  of  the 
long  low  room,  close  to  the  hearth:  they  stood  hand  in 
hand  as  if  in  an  endeavour  to  inculcate  moral  strength  to 
one  another.  The  eldest  of  the  two  women  might  have 
been  twenty-five  years  of  age,  the  other  some  few  years 
younger:  their  white  faces  and  round,  dilated  eyes  showed 
the  deathly  fear  which  held  them  both  in  its  grip.  Obviously 
the  girls  would  have  fled  out  of  the  tap-room  long  before 
this,  and  equally  obviously  the  two  men  had  been  posted 
at  the  door  in  order  to  cut  off  their  retreat. 

At  sight  of  their  captain,  the  men  staggered  to  their 
feet;  the  provost  passed  the  word  of  command,  fearful 
lest  the  ribald  attitude  of  his  men  brought  severe  censure 
— and  worse — upon  himself.  He  stood  up,  as  steadily,  as 
uprightly  as  he  could;  but  don  Ramon  took  little  notice  of 


JUSTICE  107 

him;  he  called  peremptorily  to  the  two  girls — who  more 
frightened  than  ever  now,  still  clung  desperately  to  one 
another. 

"Here,  wench!"  he  said  roughly,  "I  want  wine,  the  best 
you  have,  and  a  private  room  in  which  to  sit." 

"At  your  service,  sefior!"  murmured  the  elder  of  the 
two  girls  almost  inaudibly. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"Katrine,  so  please  your  Magnificence." 

"And  yours?" 

"Crete,  at  your  service,  Magnificence,"  whispered  the 
girls  one  after  the  other,  clinging  one  to  the  other,  like 
two  miserable  atoms  of  humanity  tossed  about  by  the  hard 
hand  of  Fate. 

"At  my  service  then,  and  quickly  too,"  retorted  don 
Ramon  curtly,  "go  down  into  the  cellar,  Katrine,  and  get 
me  a  fresh  bottle  of  Rhine  wine — the  best  your  heretical 
father  hath  left  behind.  And  you,  Crete,  show  me  to 
another  room,  and  when  presently  I  order  you  to  kiss  me, 
see  that  you  do  not  do  it  with  such  a  sour  mouth,  or  by  Our 
Lady  I'll  remember  that  your  father  must  hang  on  the 
morrow,  and  that  you  are  nothing  better  than  a  pair  of 
heretics  too.  Now  then,"  he  added  harshly,  "must  I  repeat 
the  order?" 

He  had  undone  the  buckle  of  his  sword-belt,  and  was 
carrying  his  sheathed  sword  in  his  hand:  he  found  it  a 
splendid  weapon  for  striking  further  terror  into  the  hearts 
of  the  two  girls,  whose  shrieks  of  pain  and  fear  caused 
great  hilarity  amongst  the  soldiers.  Don  Ramon  felt  that 
if  only  Mark  van  Rycke  could  have  been  there,  all  the 
wounds  which  that  young  malapert  had  dared  to  inflict  upon 
the  pride  of  a  Spanish  grandee  would  forthwith  be  healed. 


108  LEATHERFACE 

Indeed,  don  Ramon  enjoyed  every  incident  of  this  ex- 
hilarating spectacle ;  for  instance,  when  buxom  Katrine  had 
at  last  toddled  down  the  steps  into  the  cellar,  the  soldiers 
closed  the  trap-door  upon  her ;  whereupon  the  provost,  who 
had  become  very  hilarious,  shouted  lustily : 

"What  ho!  what  are  you  louts  doing  there?  His  Mag- 
nificence will  be  wanting  the  wine  which  he  has  ordered. 
If  you  lock  the  cellarer  into  her  cellar,  she'll  come  out 
presently  as  drunk  as  a  Spanish  lord." 

"All  right,  provost,"  retorted  one  of  the  men,  "we'll  let 
her  out  presently.  His  Magnificence  won't  have  to  wait 
for  long.  But  we  can  levy  a  toll  on  her — do  you  under- 
stand?— whenever  the  wench  is  ready  to  come  out  of 
prison." 

"Oh!  I  understand!"  quoth  the  provost  with  a  laugh. 

And  don  Ramon  laughed  too.  He  was  enjoying  himself 
even  more  than  he  had  hoped.  He  saw  the  other  girl — 
Crete — turn  almost  grey  with  terror,  and  he  felt  that  he 
was  punishing  Mark  van  Rycke  for  every  insolent  word 
which  he  had  uttered  at  the  Town  Hall  and  Laurence  for 
every  threatening  gesture.  He  gave  Crete  a  sharp  prod- 
ding with  the  hilt  of  his  sword: 

"Now  then,  you  Flemish  slut,"  he  said  harshly,  "show 
me  to  your  best  parlour,  and  don't  stand  there  gaping." 

Perforce  she  had  to  show  him  the  way  out  of  the  public 
tapperij  to  the  private  room  reserved  for  noble  guests, 

"Send  one  of  your  men  to  fetch  the  wench  away  in 
about  half  an  hour,  provost,"  called  don  Ramon  loudly 
over  his  shoulder,  "I  shall  have  got  tired  of  her  by  then." 

Loud  laughter  greeted  this  sally  and  a  general  clapping 
of  mugs  against  the  table.  Crete  more  dead  than  alive 
nearly  fell  over  the  threshold. 


JUSTICE  109 


IV 


The  private  room  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  narrow 
tiled  hall  and  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  small  iron  lamp  that 
hung  from  a  beam  of  the  ceiling  above.  The  door  was 
half  open  and  Grete  pushed  it  open  still  further  and  then 
stood  aside  to  allow  the  senor  captain  to  pass. 

"Will  your  Magnificence  be  pleased  to  walk  in,"  she 
whispered. 

Great  tears  were  in  her  eyes;  don  Ramon  paused  under 
the  lintel  of  the  door,  and  with  a  rough  gesture  pinched  her, 
cheek  and  ear. 

"Not  ugly  for  a  Flemish  heifer,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 
"Come  along,  girl!  Let's  see  if  your  heretical  father  hath 
taught  you  how  to  pay  due  respect  to  your  superiors." 

"My  humblest  respect  I  do  offer  your  Magnificence," 
said  Grete,  who  was  bravely  trying  to  suppress  her  tears. 

"Come!  that's  better,"  he  retorted,  as  he  pushed  the  girl 
into  the  room  and  swaggered  in  behind  her,  closing  the 
door  after  him.  "Now,  Grete,"  he  added,  as  he  threw 
himself  into  a  chair  and  stretched  his  legs  out  before 
him,  "come  and  sit  on  my  knee,  and  if  I  like  the  way  you 
kiss  me,  why,  my  girl,  there's  no  knowing  what  I  might 
not  do  to  please  you.  Come  here,  Grete!"  he  reiterated 
more  peremptorily,  for  the  girl  had  retreated  to  a  dark 
corner  of  the  room  and  was  cowering  there  just  like  a 
frightened  dog. 

"Come  here,  Grete,"  he  called  loudly  for  the  third  time. 
But  Grete  was  much  too  frightened  to  move. 

With  a  savage  oath  don  Ramon  jumped  to  his  feet,  and 
kicked  the  chair  on  which  he  had  been  sitting  so  that  it 


110  LEATHERFACE 

flew  with  a  loud  clatter  half  way  across  the  room.  Crete 
fell  on  her  knees. 

"Good  Lord  deliver  me!"  she  murmured. 

Don  Ramon  seized  her  by  her  two  hands  that  were 
clasped  together  in  prayer,  he  dragged  her  up  from  her 
knees,  and  toward  the  table  which  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  small,  square  room.  Then  he  let  her  fall  backwards 
against  the  table,  and  laughed  because  she  continued  to  pray 
to  God  to  help  her. 

"As  if  God  would  take  any  notice  of  heretics  and  rebels 
and  Netherlanders  generally,"  he  said  with  a  sneer.  "Stand 
up,  girl,  and  go  back  to  my  men.  I  have  had  enough  of 
you  already.  Ye  gods!  what  a  vile  crowd  these  Nether- 
landers  are!  Go  back  into  the  tap-room,  do  you  hear,  girl? 
and  see  that  you  and  your  ugly  sister  entertain  my  men  as 
you  should.  For  if  you  don't,  and  I  hear  of  any  psalm- 
singing  or  simpering  nonsense  I'll  hand  you  over  to  the  In- 
quisition as  avowed  heretics  to-morrow." 

But  truly  Crete  was  by  now  almost  paralysed  with  fear ; 
she  was  no  brave  heroine  of  romance  who  could  stand 
up  before  a  tyrant  and  browbeat  him  by  the  very  force  of 
her  character  and  personality,  she  was  but  a  mere  wreckage 
of  humanity  whom  any  rough  hand  could  send  hopelessly 
adrift  upon  the  sea  of  life.  Her  one  refuge  was  her  tears, 
her  only  armour  of  defence  her  own  utter  helplessness. 

But  this  helplessness  which  would  appeal  to  the  most 
elementary  sense  of  chivalry,  had  not  the  power  to  stir  a 
single  kind  instinct  in  don  Ramon  de  Linea.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  it  would  not  have  appealed  to  a  single  Span- 
iard these  days.  They  were  all  bred  in  the  one 
school  which  taught  them  from  infancy  an  utter  contempt 
for  this  subject  race  and  a  deadly  hatred  against  the  heretics 
and  rebels  of  the  Low  Countries.  They  were  taught  to  look 


JUSTICE  111 

upon  these  people  as  little  better  than  cattle,  without  any 
truth,  honesty  or  loyalty  in  them,  as  being  false  and  treach- 
erous, murderous  and  dishonest.  Don  Ramon,  who  at  this 
moment  was  behaving  as  scurrilously  as  any  man,  not  ab- 
solutely born  in  the  gutter,  could  possibly  do,  was  only  fol- 
lowing the  traditions  of  his  race,  of  his  country  and  its 
tyrannical  government. 

Therefore  when  Crete  wept  he  laughed,  when  she  mur- 
mured the  little  prayers  which  her  father  had  taught  her, 
he  felt  nothing  but  irritation  and  unmeasured  contempt. 
He  tried  to  silence  the  girl  by  loud  shouts  and  peremptory 
commands,  when  these  were  of  no  avail  he  threatened,  to 
call  for  assistance  from  his  sergeant.  Still  the  girl  made 
no  attempt  either  to  move  or  to  stem  the  flood  of  tears. 
Then  don  Ramon  called  aloud:  "Hallo  there,  sergeant!" 
and  receiving  no  answer,  he  went  to  the  door,  in  order 
to  reiterate  his  call  from  there. 


His  hand  was  on  the  latch,  when  the  door  was  suddenly 
opened  from  without;  so  violently  that  don  Ramon  was 
nearly  thrown  off  his  balance,  and  would  probably  have 
measured  his  length  on  the  floor,  but  that  he  fell  up  against 
the  table  and  remained  there,  leaning  against  it  with  one 
hand  in  order  to  steady  himself,  and  turning  a  wrathful 
glance  on  the  intruder. 

"By  the  Mass!"  he  said  peremptorily,  "who  is  this 
malapert  who  .  .  ." 

But  the  words  died  on  his  lips;  the  look  of  wrath  in  his 
eyes  gave  way  to  one  of  sudden  terror.  He  stared  straight 
out  before  him  at  the  sombre  figure  which  had  just  crossed 


112  LEATHERFACE 

the  threshold.  It  was  the  tall  figure  of  a  man  dressed  in 
dark  tightly-fitting  clothes,  wearing  high  boots  to  the  top  of 
his  thighs,  a  hood  over  his  head  and  a  mask  of  untanned 
leather  on  his  face.  He  was  unarmed. 

Don  Ramon,  already  a  prey  to  that  superstitious  fear 
of  the  unknown  and  of  the  mysterious  which  characterised 
even  the  boldest  of  his  country  and  of  his  race,  felt  all  his 
arrogance  giving  way  in  the  presence  of  this  extraordinary 
apparition,  which  by  the  dim  and  flickering  light  of  the 
lamp  appeared  to  him  to  be  preternaturally  tall  and 
strangely  menacing  in  its  grim  attitude  of  silence.  Thus  a 
moment  or  two  went  by.  The  stranger  now  turned  and 
carefully  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  him.  Key  in 
hand  he  went  up  to  the  girl — Crete — who,  no  less  terrified 
than  her  tormentor,  was  cowering  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

"Where  is  Katrine,"  he  asked  quickly;  then,  as  the  girl 
almost  paralysed  by  fear  seemed  quite  unable  to  speak,  he 
added  more  peremptorily: 

"Pull  yourself  together,  wench;  your  life  and  Katrine's 
depend  on  your  courage  now.  Where  is  she?" 

"In  ...  in  ...  the  cellar  .  .  .  I  think," 
stammered  Crete  almost  inaudibly  and  making  a  brave 
effort  to  conquer  her  terror. 

"Can  you  reach  her  without  crossing  the  tap-room?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Well,  then,  run  to  her  at  once.  Don't  stop  to  collect  any 
of  your  belongings,  except  what  money  you  have;  then 
go  ...  go  at  once.  .  .  .  Have  you  a  friend  or 
relative  in  this  city  to  whom  you  could  go  at  this  late  hour?" 

Again  the  girl  nodded,  and  looked  up  more  boldly  this 
time:  "My  father's  sister  ..."  she  whispered. 

"Where  does  she  live?" 

"At  the  sign  of  the  'Merry  Beggars'  in  Dendermonde." 


JUSTICE  113 

"Then  go  to  her  at  once — you  and  Katrine.  You  will 
be  safe  there  for  awhile.  If  any  further  danger  threatens 
you  or  your  kinsfolk,  you  shall  be  advised  ...  in  that 
case  you  would  have  to  leave  the  country." 

"I  shouldn't  be  afraid,"  murmured  the  girl. 

"That's  good !"  he  concluded.     "Come,  Crete !" 

He  turned  back  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  and  let  the  girl 
slip  out  of  the  room.  Then  he  relocked  the  door. 


VI 


While  this  brief  colloquy  had  been  going  on,  don  Ramon 
was  making  great  efforts  to  recover  his  scattered  wits  and 
to  steady  his  overstrung  nerves.  The  superstitious  fear 
which  had  gripped  him  by  the  throat,  yielded  at  first  to 
another  equally  terrifying  thought:  the  hood  and  mask 
suggested  an  emissary  of  the  Inquisition,  one  of  those 
silent,  nameless  beings  who  seemed  to  have  the  power  of 
omnipresence,  who  glide.d  through  closed  doors  and  barred 
windows,  appeared  suddenly  in  tavern,  church  or  street 
corner,  and  were  invariably  the  precursors  of  arrest,  tor- 
ture-chamber and  death.  No  man  or  woman — however 
high-born,  however  highly  placed,  however  influential  or 
however  poor  and  humble,  was  immune  from  the  watchful 
eye  of  the  Inquisition;  a  thoughtless  word,  a  careless  jest 
— or  the  mere  denunciation  of  an  enemy — and  the  accusa- 
tion of  treason,  heresy  or  rebellion  was  trumped  up  and 
gibbet  or  fire  claimed  yet  another  victim.  Don  Ramon — 
a  Spanish  grandee — could  not  of  course  be  denounced  as  a 
heretic,  but  he  knew  that  the  eyes  of  de  Vargas  were  upon 
him,  that  he  might  he  thought  importune  or  in  the  way  now 
that  other  projects  had  been  formed  for  donna  Lenora — 


LEATHERFACE 

and  he  also  knew  that  de  Vargas  would  as  ruthlessly  sweep 
him  out  of  the  way  as  he  would  a  troublesome  fly. 

Thus  fear  of  real,  concrete  danger  had  succeeded  that 
of  the  supernatural;  but  now  that  the  stranger  moved  and 
spoke  kindly  with  Grete — the  daughter  of  an  heretic — it 
was  evident  that  he  was  no  spy  of  the  Inquisition:  he  was 
either  an  avowed  enemy  who  chose  this  theatrical  manner 
of  accomplishing  a  petty  vengeance,  or  in  actual  fact  that 
extraordinary  creature  who  professed  to  be  the  special 
protector  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  whom  popular  super- 
stition among  the  soldiery  had  nicknamed  Leather  face. 

The  latter  was  by  far  the  most  likely,  and  as  the  stranger 
whoever  he  was,  was  unarmed,  don  Ramon  felt  that  he 
had  no  longer  any  cause  for  fear.  Though  his  sword — in 
its  scabbard — was  lying  on  the  table,  his  dagger  was  in  his 
belt.  With  a  quick  movement  he  unsheathed  it,  and  at  the 
precise  moment  when  the  masked  man  had  his  back  to  him 
in  order  to  relock  the  door,  don  Ramon — dagger  in  hand 
— made  a  swift  and  sudden  dash  for  him.  But  the  stranger 
had  felt  rather  than  seen  or  heard  the  danger  which  threat- 
ened him.  As  quick  as  any  feline  creature  he  turned  on  his 
assailant  and  gripped  his  upraised  hand  by  the  wrist  with 
such  a  vice-like  grip  that  don  Ramon  uttered  a  cry  of  rag^ 
and  pain :  his  fingers  opened  out  nervelessly  and  the  dagger 
fell  with  a  clatter  to  the  ground. 

Then  the  two  men  closed  with  one  another.  It  was  a 
fight,  each  for  the  other's  throat — a  savage,  primitive  fight 
— man  against  man — with  no  weapon  save  sinewy  hands, 
hatred  and  the  primeval  instinct  to  kill.  The  masked  man 
was  by  far  the  more  powerful  and  the  more  cool.  Within 
a  very  few  moments  he  had  don  Ramon  down  on  his  knees, 
his  own  strong  hands  gripping  the  other's  throat.  The 
Spaniard  felt  that  he  was  doomed :  he — of  that  race  which 


JUSTICE  115 

was  sending  thousands  of  innocent  and  defenceless  crea- 
tures to  a  hideous  death — he,  who  had  so  often  and  so 
mercilessly  lent  a  hand  to  outrage,  to  pillage  and  'to  murder, 
who  but  a  few  moments  ago  was  condemning  two  helpless 
girls  to  insults  and  outrage  worse  than  death,  was  in  his 
turn  a  defenceless  atom  in  the  hands  of  a  justiciary.  The 
breath  was  being  squeezed  out  of  his  body,  his  limbs  felt 
inert  and  stiff,  his  mind  became  clouded  over  as  by  a  crim- 
son mist.  He  tried  to  call  for  help,  but  the  cry  died  in  his 
throat.  And  through  the  mist  which  gradually  obscured 
his  vision  he  could  still  see  the  silhouette  of  that  closely- 
hooded  head  and  a  pair  of  eyes  shining  down  on  him 
through  the  holes  of  the  leather  mask. 

"Let  me  go,  miscreant,"  he  gasped  as  for  one  moment 
the  grip  on  his  throat  seemed  to  relax.  "By  heaven  you 
shall  suffer  for  this  outrage." 

"  'Tis  you  will  suffer,"  said  the  other  coldly,  "even  as 
you  would  have  made  two  helpless  and  innocent  women 
suffer." 

"They  shall  suffer  yet!"  cried  don  Ramon  with  a  blas- 
phemous oath,  "they  and  their  kith  and  kin — aye !  and  this 
accursed  city  which  hath  given  you  shelter!  Assassin!" 

"And  it  is  because  you  are  such  an  abominable  cur," 
came  a  voice  relentlessly  from  behind  the  leather  mask, 
"because  you  would  hunt  two  unfortunates  down,  them 
and  their  kith  and  kin  and  the  city  that  gave  them  shelter, 
that  you  are  too  vile  to  live,  and  that  I  mean  to  kill  you, 
like  I  would  any  pestilential  beast  that  befouled  God's  earth. 
So  make  your  peace  with  your  Creator  now,  for  you  are 
about  to  meet  Him  face  to  face  laden  with  the  heavy 
burden  of  your  infamies." 

In  don  Ramon  now  only  one  instinct  remained  para- 
mount— the  instinct  of  a  final  effort  for  self-defence.  When 


116  LEATHERFACE 

he  fell,  his  knee  came  in  contact  with  the  dagger  which  he 
had  dropped.  It  cost  him  a  terrible  effort,  but  nevertheless 
he  succeeded  in  groping  for  it  with  his  right  hand  and  in 
seizing  it :  another  moment  of  violent  struggle  for  free- 
dom, another  convulsive  movement  and  he  had  lifted  the 
dagger.  He  struck  with  ferocious  vigour  at  his  powerful 
opponent  and  inflicted  a  gashing  wound  upon  his  left  arm 
— the  dagger  penetrated  to  the  bone,  cutting  flesh  and 
muscle  through  from  wrist  to  elbow. 

But  even  as  he  struck  he  knew  that  it  was  too  late;  he 
had  not  even  the  strength  to  renew  the  effort.  The  next 
moment  the  vice-like  grip  tightened  round  his  throat  with 
merciless  power.  He  could  neither  cry  for  help  nor  yet 
for  mercy,  nor  were  his  struggles  heard  beyond  these  four 
narrow  walls. 

The  soldiers  whom  he  himself  had  bidden  to  be  merry 
and  to  carouse,  were  singing  and  shouting  at  the  top  of 
their  voice,  and  heard  neither  his  struggles  nor  his  cries. 
The  dagger  had  long  since  slipped  out  of  his  hand,  and 
at  last  he  fell  backwards  striking  his  head  against  the  leg 
of  the  table  as  he  fell. 


VII 


In  the  tap-room  the  soldiers  had  soon  got  tired  of  wait- 
ing for  Katrine.  At  first  some  of  them  amused  themselves 
by  reopening  the  trap-door,  then  sitting  on  the  top  step 
of  the  ladder  that  led  to  the  cellar  and  thence  shouting 
ribald  oaths,  coarse  jests  and  blasphemies  for  the  benefit 
of  the  unfortunate  girl  down  below. 

But  after  a  time  this  entertainment  also  palled,  and  a 
council  was  held  as  to  who  should  go  down  and  fetch  the 
girl.  The  cellar  was  vastly  tempting  in  itself — with  no 


JUSTICE  11? 

one  to  guard  it  save  a  couple  of  wenches — and  the  captain 
more  than  half -inclined  to  be  lenient  toward  a  real  bout  of 
drunkenness.  It  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  missed; 
strange  that  the  idea  had  not  occurred  to  seven  thirsty  men 
before. 

Now  the  provost  declared  that  he  would  go  down  first, 
others  could  follow  him  in  turn,  but  two  must  always 
remain  in  the  tap-room  in  case  the  captain  called,  their 
comrades  would  supply  them  with  wine  from  below.  The 
provost  descended — candle  in  hand — so  did  four  of  the 
men,  but  Katrine  was  no  longer  in  the  cellar.  They  hunted 
for  her  for  awhile,  and  discovered  a  window,  the  shaft  of 
which  sloped  upwards  to  a  yard  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
The  window  was  open  and  there  was  a  ladder  resting 
against  the  wall  of  the  shaft. 

The  men  swore  a  little,  then  went  back  to  investigate 
the  casks  of  wine.  With  what  happened  in  tjie  cellar  after 
that  this  chronicle  hath  no  concern,  but  those  soldiers  who 
remained  up  in  the  tap-room  had  a  curious  experience  which 
their  fuddled  brains  did  not  at  first  take  in  altogether.  What 
happened  was  this :  the  door  which  gave  on  the  passage 
was  opened,  and  a  man  appeared  under  the  lintel.  He  was 
dressed  in  sombre,  tight-fitting  doublet  and  hose,  with  high 
boots  reaching  well  above  his  knees;  he  had  a  hood  over 
his  head  and  a  mask  on  his  face.  The  S9ldiers  stared  at 
him  with  wide-open,  somewhat  dimmed  eyes. 

The  masked  man  only  spoke  a  few  words: 

"Tell  your  provost,"  he  said,  "that  senor  captain  don 
Ramon  de  Linea  lies  dead  in  the  room  yonder." 

Then  he  disappeared,  as  quietly  as  he  had  come. 


CHAPTER  V 


VENGEANCE 


"SATAN  !    Satan !    Assassin !" 

Donna  Lenora  had  stood  beside  the  dead  body  of  her 
lover  and  kinsman  wide-eyed  and  pale  with  rigid,  set  mouth 
and  trembling  knees  while  her  father  explained  to  her  how 
don  Ramon  de  Linea  had  been  murdered  in  the  tavern 
of  the  "Three  Weavers"  by  an  unknown  man  who  wore 
a  leather  mask.  She  had  listened  to  the  whole  garbled  ver- 
sion of  the  sordid  affair,  never  thinking  to  doubt  a  single 
one  of  her  father's  words :  don  Ramon  de  Linea,  according 
to  the  account  given  to  his  daughter  by  Juan  de  Vargas, 
had — while  in  the  execution  of  his  duty — been  attacked 
in  a  dark  passage  by  a  mysterious  assassin,  who  had  fled 
directly  his  nefarious  work  had  been  accomplished. 

The  murderer,  however,  was  seen  by  the  provost  in  com- 
mand and  by  two  of  the  soldiers,  and  was  accurately  de- 
scribed by  them  as  wearing  doublet  and  high-boots  of  a 
dark-brown  colour,  a  hood  over  his  head  and  a  mask  of  un- 
tanned  leather  on  his  face.  The  man  had  rapidly  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness,  evading  all  pursuit. 

And  donna  Lenora — thus  face  to  face  for  the  first  time 
in  her  sheltered  life  with  crime,  with  horror  and  with 
grief — had,  in  the  first  moment  of  despairing  misery,  not 
even  a  prayer  to  God  in  her  heart,  for  it  was  filled  with 
bitter  thoughts  of  resentment  and  of  possible  revenge. 

118 


VENGEANCE  119 

She  had  loved  her  cousin  don  Ramon  de  Linea  with  all 
the  ardour  of  her  youth,  of  her  warm  temperament  and 
of  a  heart  thirsting  for  the  self-sacrifice  which  women  were 
so  ready  to  offer  these  days  on  the  altar  of  their  Love. 
She  had  never  thought  him  shallow  or  cruel :  to  her  he 
had  always  been  just  the  playmate  of  childhood's  days, 
the  handsome,  masterful  boy  whom  she  had  looked  up  to 
as  the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  strong  and  noble  and 
chivalrous,  the  first  man  who  had  ever  whispered  the 
magic  word  "love"  in  her  ear. 

Now  an  unknown  enemy  had  killed  him:  not  in  fair 
fight,  not  in  the  open,  on  the  field  of  honour,  but — as  her 
father  said — in  a  tavern,  in  the  dark,  surreptitiously,  treach- 
erously; and  donna  Lenora  in  an  agony  of  passionate  re- 
sentment had  at  last  broken  the  silence  which  had  almost 
frightened  her  father  and  had  suddenly  called  out  with 
fierce  intensity :  "Satan !  Satan !  Assassin !"  Her  father 
had  given  her  an  account  of  the  horrible  incident,  which 
was  nothing  but  a  tissue  of  falsehoods  from  beginning  to 
end,  and  Lenora  had  listened  and  believed.  How  could  she 
doubt  her  own  father?  She  hardly  knew  him — and  he 
was  all  she  had  in  the  world  on  whom  to  pour  out  the 
wealth  of  her  affection  and  of  her  faith. 


II 


Truth  to  tell,  de  Vargas  had  received  the  news  of  don 
Ramon's  death  with  unbounded  satisfaction. 

Lenora  had  obeyed  him  and  had  been  this  night  publicly 
affianced  to  Mark  van  Rycke;  but  between  her  consent  to 
the  marriage  and  her  willingness  to  become  Alva's  tool  as 
a  spy  among  her  husband's  people  there  was  the  immeas- 


120  LEATHERFACE 

urable  abyss  of  a  woman's  temperament  and  a  woman's 
natural  pity  for  the  oppressed. 

But  the  outrage  to-night — the  murder  of  the  man  whom 
she  still  loved  despite  paternal  prohibitions — was  bound  to 
react  on  the  girl's  warm  and  passionate  nature — and  react 
in  the  manner  which  her  father  desired.  He  trusted  to  his 
own  powers  of  lying,  to  place  the  case  before  his  daughter 
in  its  most  lurid  light.  He  had  at  once  spoken  of  "spies" 
and  "assassins"  and  his  words  had  been  well  chosen.  Within 
a  few  moments  after  he  had  told  Lenora  the  news,  he  felt 
that  he  could  play  like  a  skilled  musician  upon  every  string 
of  her  overwrought  sensibilities.  Her  heart  had  already 
been  very  sore  at  being  forced  to  part  from  her  first  lover  ; 
now  that  the  parting  had  suddenly  become  irrevocable  in 
this  horrible  way,  all  the  pent  up  passion,  fierce  resentment 
and  wrath  which  she  had  felt  against  her  future  husband 
and  his  people  could  by  clever  manipulation  be  easily  merged 
into  an  equally  fierce  desire  for  revenge. 

It  was  a  cruel  game  to  play  with  a  young  girl  who  by 
blood  and  race  was  made  to  feel  every  emotion  with  super- 
acuteness:  but  de  Vargas  was  not  the  man  who  would 
ever  allow  pity  or  chivalry  to  interfere  with  his  schemes: 
he  saw  in  his  daughter's  mental  suffering,  in  the  shattering 
of  her  nerves  and  the  horror  which  had  well-nigh  paralysed 
her,  nothing  but  a  guarantee  of  success  for  that  compre- 
hensive project  which  had  the  death  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  for  its  ultimate  aim. 

"It  is  strange,"  murmured  the  girl  after  awhile,  "that 
when  Ramon  talked  with  me  in  the  Town  House  last  night, 
he  said  that  these  Netherlanders  had  a  habit  of  striking 
at  an  enemy  in  the  dark." 

"A  presentiment,  no  doubt,"  rejoined  de  Vargas  with 
well-feigned  gentleness.  "Now,  my  child,  you  begin  to 


VENGEANCE  121 

understand — do  you  not? — why  it  is  that  we  Spaniards 
hate  these  treacherous  Netherlanders.  They  are  vile  and 
corrupt  to  the  heart,  every  single  man,  woman  or  child 
of  them.  They  fear  us  and  have  not  the  pluck  to  fight 
us  in  the  open.  Orange  and  his  contemptible  little  army 
have  sought  shelter  in  Holland — they  dare  not  face  the 
valouf  and  enthusiasm  of  our  troops.  But  mark  you,  what 
Orange  hath  done!  He  hath  sown  the  entire  country  with 
a  crop  of  spies!  They  are  here,  there,  everywhere — not 
very  cunning  and  certainly  not  brave — their  orders  are  to 
strike  in  the  dark  when  and  how  they  can.  They  waylay 
our  Spanish  officers  in  the  ill-lighted,  and  intricate  streets 
of  their  abominable  cities,  they  dog  their  footsteps  until 
they  meet  them  in  some  lowly  tavern  or  a  tenebrous  arch-- 
way:  then  out  comes  their  dagger,  swift  and  sure,  and 
they  strike  in  the  gloom — and  a  gallant  Spanish  officer's 
blood  stains  the  cobblestones  of  one  of  their  towns.  It 
was  don  Ramon  to-day — it  will  be  Julian  Romero  perhapsi 
to-morrow — or  don  Juan  de  Vargas — who  knows?  or 
mayhap  the  duke  of  Alva  one  day.  Orange  and  his  crowd 
are  out  on  a  campaign  of  assassination — an  army  of  as- 
sassins has  been  let  loose — and  their  captain-general  wears 
a  mask  of  leather  and  our  soldiery  have  dubbed  him 
'Leatherface' !" 

"I  have  heard  of  this  man  'Leather face,' "  said  Lenora 
slowly.  "It  is  he,  you  think,  who  murdered  Ramon?" 

"Have  we  not  the  soldiers'  testimony?"  he  rejoined 
blandly,  "two  men  and  the  provost  saw  him  quite  clearly. 
As  for  me,  I  am  not  surprised :  more  than  once  our  spies 
have  reported  that  the  man  undoubtedly  hailed  from  Ghent, 
and  once  he  was  traced  to  the  very  gates  of  this  city.  But," 
he  added  insinuatingly,  "here  he  is  surrounded  by  friends : 


122  LEATHERFACE 

every  burgher  in  Ghent,  no  doubt,  opens  wide  his  hos- 
pitable door  to  the  murderer  of  Spanish  officers." 

"Think  you  it  is  likely  that  the  High-Bailiff  of  Ghent 
or  ...  or  ...  my  future  husband  would  har- 
bour such  an  assassin?"  she  asked. 

"Well!"  he  replied  evasively,  "all  Netherlanders  are 
treacherous.  The  High-Bailiff  himself  and  his  son  Mark 
are  said  to  be  loyal  .  .  .  but  there's  another  son  .  .  . 
and  the  mother  .  .  .  one  never  knows.  It  would  be 
strange,"  he  continued  unctuously,  "if  at  some  future  time 
the  murderer  of  Ramon  should  find  shelter  in  your  house." 

"I  shall  pray  to  the  saints,"  she  rejoined  with  passionate 
intensity,  "that  he  and  I  may  meet  face  to  face  one  day." 

Indeed  de  Vargas  had  no  cause  to  fear  that  henceforth 
his  daughter  would  fail  in  her  vigilance.  The  assassina- 
tion of  her  lover  had  stirred  her  soul  to  its  inmost  depths. 
Indifference  and  light-hearted  girlishness  had  suddenly 
given  place  to  all  the  violent  passions  of  her  ardent  nature. 
For  the  moment  desire  for  vengeance — for  justice  she  called 
it — and  hatred  of  the  assassin  and  his  mates  had  swept 
every  other  thought,  every  soft  aspiration  away:  all  her 
world — the  world  as  seen  through  the  rose-coloured  win- 
dows of  a  convent  window — had  tottered  and  opened  be- 
neath her  feet,  and  through  the  yawning  chasm  she  now 
saw  evil  and  lust  and  cruelty  dancing  a  triumphant  saraband 
over  Ramon's  dead  body. 

"There  is  a  means,"  resumed  de  Vargas  after  a  slight 
pause,  during  which  through  half-closed  lids  he  studied 
the  play  of  every  varying  emotion  upon  his  daughter's 
beautiful  face,  "there  is  a  means,  my  child,  whereby  you 
or  any  faithful  servant  of  our  King  can  henceforth  recog- 
nise at  a  glance  the  man  who  killed  your  cousin  Ramon." 

"A  means?" 


VENGEANCE  123 

"Yes.  He  carries  upon  his  arm  the  brand  of  his  own 
infamy." 

"Will  you  tell  me  more  clearly  what  you  mean?"  she 
asked. 

"Ramon  had  not  breathed  his  last  when  the  provost 
found  him  and  ultimately  brought  him  here  to  my  lodgings. 
He  was  able  to  speak  and  to  give  a  fragmentary  account 
of  what  had  taken  place :  how  he  was  set  upon  in  the  dark 
and  stabbed  to  death  ere  he  could  utter  a  cry.  But  at  the 
last  moment  he  made  a  supreme  effort  and  wrenching  his 
dagger  from  his  belt  he  struck  with  it  at  his  assailant.  It 
seems  that  he  inflicted  a  very  severe  wound  upon  the  mis- 
creant :  the  dagger  penetrated  into  the  left  forearm  close  to 
the  elbow  and  gashed  the  flesh  and  muscle  as  far  as  the 
wrist  and  right  through  to  the  bone.  It  is  not  likely  that 
at  this  moment  there  is  more  than  one  man  in  Ghent  who 
hath  such  a  wound  in  the  left  forearm :  the  wound  was  deep 
too,  and  will  take  some  time  to  heal,  and  even  when  it  is 
healed  it  will  leave  a  tell-tale  scar  which  will  last  for  years. 

"I  think,"  rejoined  Lenora  coldly,  "that  I  should  know 
the  man  who  killed  Ramon,  even  if  he  bore  no  brand  of 
Cain  upon  his  person." 

Father  and  daughter  looked  at  one  another  and  for 
the  space  of  a  few  seconds  their  souls — so  different  in  every 
ideal,  every  feeling,  every  aspiration — met  in  one  common 
resolve.  He  could  hardly  repress  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 
He  knew  that  he  held  her,  closely,  firmly,  indissolubly  at 
last.  He  held  her  by  all  the  romance  which  her  girlish 
imagination  had  woven  round  the  personality  of  a  worth- 
less man,  and  by  all  the  deep  sense  of  injury  which  she  felt 
as  well  as  all  the  horror  and  the  indignation  at  the  dastardly 
deed.  And  his  own  warped  and  gloomy  soul  was  at  one 
with  her  pure  and  childlike  one — pure  because  even  the  de- 


124  LEATHERFACE 

sire  for  revenge  which  she  felt,  she  ascribed  to  God,  and 
called  it  justice.  The  Moorish  blood  in  her  which  mingles 
even  with  the  bluest  Castilian  claimed  with  savage,  primeval 
instinct  that  "eye  for  an  eye"  and  "tooth  for  a  tooth"  which 
alone  can  satisfy  a  hot-headed  and  passionate  race. 

Lenora's  eyes  as  she  met  those  of  her  father  lost  their 
look  of  dull  despair:  something  of  the  fanatical  hatred 
which  he  felt  for  the  whole  of  the  despised  race  com- 
municated itself  to  her,  now  that  she  too  had  so  much 
cause  for  hatred. 

"We  understand  one  another,  Lenora,"  he  said.  And 
like  a  feline  creature  sure  of  its  prey,  he  drew  quite  close 
to  her  and  took  her  hand,  and  began  gently  to  stroke  it. 

"You  will  have  to  teach  me  what  to  do,  father,"  she 
rejoined. 

"Your  heart  and  wits  will  tell  you  that.  In  a  few  days 
you  will  have  entered  the  van  Rycke  household.  Keep 
your  eyes  and  ears  open,  and  win  the  confidence  and  love 
of  all  those  around  you.  Let  not  a  word,  a  sign,  a  gesture 
escape  you,  and  come  and  tell  me  at  once  all  that  you  see 
and  hear.  Will  you  promise  to  do  that,  my  Lenora?"  he 
added,  forcing  his  harsh  voice  to  tones  of  gentleness. 

"I  promise,"  she  replied  fervently. 

"The  Lieutenant-Governor  believes  that  Orange  himself 
has  been  visiting  Ghent  lately!  Keep  your  eyes  and  ears 
open,  Lenora,  you  may  be  the  means  of  bringing  that  arch- 
traitor  to  his  just  punishment.  Promise  me  that  you  will 
listen,"  he  urged. 

"I  promise,"  she  reiterated  firmly. 

"The  Lieutenant-Governor  comes  to  Ghent  in  a  few 
days'  time.  Wherever  he  goes  there  is  always  fear  for 
his  precious  life.  If  Orange  has  been  in  Ghent  then  he 
hath  hatched  a  plot  against  the  Duke — on  this  I  would  stake 


VENGEANCE  125 

my  life — promise  me  that  you  will  be  on  the  watch,  Le- 
nora!" 

"I  promise." 

"Upon  your  soul,  my  child  ?" 

"Upon  my  soul !" 

"And  next  to  Orange  himself,  I'd  sooner  see  that  masked 
assassin  Leatherface  hang  than  any  man  in  Europe;  re- 
member that,  little  one !" 

"I'll  not  forget." 

"The  outrage  on  don  Ramon  de  Linea  must  not  remain 
unavenged,  remember  that." 

"I'll  not  forget." 

"Then  let  Orange  and  his  rebels  look  to  themselves!" 
ejaculated  de  Vargas  with  a  note  of  triumph. 

He  took  from  the  breast  pocket  of  his  doublet  a  piece  of 
silk  ribbon  to  which  was  attached  a  flat,  yet  curiously  fash- 
ioned and  shaped  piece  of  steel. 

"Take  this,  my  child,"  he  said  significantly,  as  he  held 
the  trinket  out  to  her.  "This  little  bit  of  metal  hath  al- 
ready done  more  service  to  our  Lord  the  King,  to  our 
country,  and  to  our  faith  than  a  whole  army  of  spies." 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  a  little  talisman,"  he  replied,  "that  will  turn  any 
lock  and  open  any  secret  drawer  by  whomsoever  lock  and 
drawer  have  been  manufactured.  It  was  made  for  me 
by  the  finest  metal-cutter  of  Toledo— one  in  fact  whose 
skill  was  so  paramount  that  we  had  reluctantly  to  ... 
to  put  him  out  of  harm's  way.  He  was  getting  dangerous. 
This  pass-key  was  his  masterpiece.  I  have  tested  it  on 
the  most  perfect  specimens  of  the  locksmith's  art  both  in 
Toledo  and  in  Florence.  It  hath  never  failed  me  yet.  Take 
it,  my  child,  and  guard  it  carefully.  An  I  mistake  not,  you 
will  find  use  for  it  in  your  new  home." 


126  LEATHERFACE 

Before  she  could  protest  he  had  thrown  the  ribbon  over 
her  head,  and  she — mechanically  but  with  unaccountable 
reluctance  withal — slipped  the  trinket  into  the  bosom  of  her 
gown. 

"Remember,  my  dear,"  concluded  de  Vargas,  "that  the 
day  after  your  marriage  I  must  return  to  Brussels.  But 
if  you  see  or  hear  anything  that  may  concern  the  welfare 
of  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King,  or  of  his  government, 
you  must  come  to  me  at  once — do  not  hesitate — invent  a 
pretext — come  away  in  secret — do  anything  rather  than 
delay.  And  remember  also  that  anything  you  may  tell  me, 
I  will  treat  in  absolute  confidence.  Your  name  will  never 
appear  in  connection  with  any  denunciation  ...  I  mean," 
he  interrupted  himself  hastily,  "with  any  service  which  you 
may  render  to  the  State.  Will  you  remember  that  also,  my 
child?" 

"I  will  remember,"  she  replied. 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  she  were  under  the  potent  spell 
of  some  wizard.  She  spoke  and  acted  just  as  her  father 
directed — and  yet  he  looked  so  evil  at  this  moment,  hypoc- 
risy and  lust  were  so  apparent  in  his  jaundiced  face,  that 
even  Lenora  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  doubt  and  of  fear — 
doubt  as  to  the  purity  of  her  own  motives  and  fear  at  the 
terrible  companionship  which  would  henceforth  exist  be- 
tween herself  and  her  father's  friends,  men  who — like  him 
— were  bent  on  the  destruction  of  a  nation  and  were 
actuated  by  blind  hatred  to  oppress  an  entire  people. 

De  Vargas — vaguely  guessing  what  went  on  in  the  girl's 
mind — made  an  effort  to  regain  his  former  bland  manner : 
he  strove  by  gentleness  and  soft  words  to  lull  her  suspicions. 
After  all,  he  was  her  father  and  she — a  motherless  child — 
had  no  one  now  in  the  world  to  whom  she  could  cling, 
on  whom  she  could  pour  out  that  wealth  of  love  and  ten- 


VENGEANCE  127 

derness  which  filled  her  young  heart  to  overflowing.  So 
now — very  soon — she  was  kneeling  close  beside  him,  her 
head  resting  against  his  bosom — the  dove  nestling  near  the 
hawk;  and  the  tears  which  would  not  come  all  the  while 
that  her  soul  was  consumed  with  bitterness,  flowed  benefi- 
cently at  last  and  eased  her  overburdened  heart. 

"You  will  not  fail  me,  little  one?"  asked  de  Vargas 
even  in  the  midst  of  tender,  endearing  words. 

"Never!"  she  murmured,  "if  you  turned  against  me, 
father  dear,  whither  could  I  go?  I  have  no  one  in  the 
world  but  you." 

As  her  head  was  bent  and  her  eyes  downcast,  she  could 
not  see  the  cold  and  cruel  glitter  that  shone  in  his  face  as 
he  heard  this  simple  profession  of  whole-hearted  devotion 
and  faith. 

"Tell  me  what  to  do  and  I'll  do  it,"  she  whispered  again. 

"Then  will  God  Himself  reward  you,"  he  rejoined  unc- 
tuously, "for  you  will  be  serving  Him  and  His  Church,  His 
anointed  and  the  country  of  His  chosen  people." 

After  which  he  rose,  kissed  her  and  finally  with  a  sigh 
of  intense  satisfaction  left  her  to  meditate  alone,  to  dream 
and  to  pray. 


BOOK  TWO:  DENDERMONDE 


BOOK  TWO:  DENDERMONDE 

CHAPTER  VI 

A  STRANGER  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND 


A  WEEK  later  was  the  marriage  solemnised  between 
donna  Lenora  de  Vargas  and  Mark  van  Rycke,  son  of  the 
High-Bailiff  of  Ghent 

The  religious  ceremony  took  place  in  the  abbey  church 
of  St.  Bavon  in  the  presence  of  several  members  of  the 
Grand  Council  and  of  all  the  high  functionaries  of  the 
city.  Nothing  had  been  spared  to  make  the  occasion  a 
magnificent  and  imposing  one.  The  union  between  the  two 
young  people  was  known  to  have  the  warm  approval  of 
the  King  himself:  His  Holiness  the  Pope  had  sent  a  spe- 
cial blessing  to  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  whilst  the  Cap- 
tain-General had  granted  the  use  of  a  number  of  picked 
troops  to  render  the  display  more  gorgeous.  Seven  hun- 
dred and  fifty  arquebusiers,  spearmen  and  halberdiers  lined 
the  route  of  the  bridal  procession  between  the  town-house 
and  the  church:  they  were  dressed  in  the  heraldic  colours 
of  the  city  of  Ghent,  one  leg  blue  and  the  other  yellow,  and 
wore  enormous  hats  with  huge  feathers  dyed  in  the  two 
colours. 

The  Regent  too  had  graciously  lent  his  court  musicians 
for  the  occasion  and  they  headed  the  procession  with  full 
orchestra  playing  the  newest  motets.  The  church  itself  had 

131 


132  LEATHERFACE 

been  magnificently  decorated  with  tapestries,  and  a  huge 
concourse  of  people  lined  the  streets  in  order  to  view  all 
this  pomp  and  magnificence. 

After  the  religious  ceremony  a  grand  banquet  was  held 
in  the  great  hall  of  the  Town  House  at  which  eighty-four 
privileged  guests  were  bidden.  It  was  served  at  separate 
tables  each  laid  for  a  dozen  guests,  and  consisted  of  twenty- 
five  courses — which  were  both  varied  and  succulent.  There 
were  fowls  stewed  in  milk  and  dressed  with  sweetmeats 
and  spices,  there  were  pickled  patridges  and  pastries,  sau- 
sages and  omelettes  of  every  kind,  whilst  huge  flagons  of 
iced  beer  and  Rhenish  wines  added  to  the  conviviality  of 
the  entertainment. 

Senor  de  Vargas  presided  at  the  chief  table,  and  he  had 
the  bride  on  his  right  and  the  bridegroom  on  his  left.  The 
High-Bailiff  also  sat  at  this  table  as  did  Madame  his  wife 
and  Messire  Laurence  van  Rycke,  and  every  one  remarked 
that  senor  de  Vargas  was  in  high  good-humour  and  that 
he  bestowed  marked  evidences  of  his  favour  both  upon  the 
High-Bailiff  and  upon  the  bridegroom. 

During  the  banquet  the  court  musicians  discoursed  sweet 
music ;  in  fact  everything  was  done  not  only  with  decorum 
but  with  liberality :  this  was  the  first  union  between  a  noted 
and  highly  placed  Spanish  family  and  an  equally  distin- 
guished patrician  house  of  Flanders,  and  in  a  brief  toast, 
tankard  in  hand,  senor  de  Vargas  expressed  the  hope  that 
it  might  prove  the  precursor  of  a  great  many  more. 

Those  present  at  the  feast  remarked  moreover  that  the 
bride  was  beautiful  beyond  powers  of  description,  that  the 
bridegroom  looked  as  usual,  as  if  he  had  been  spending 
half  his  nights  in  the  taverns,  and  that  Messire  Laurence 
van  Rycke  looked  pale  and  sick. 

But  nothing  of  any  grave  moment  occurred  during  the 


A  STRANGER  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND    133 

length  of  this  exciting  and  strenuous  day.  After  the  ban-' 
quet  the  tables  were  cleared  and  many  more  guests  arrived 
to  take  part  in  a  grand  reunion  and  ball  which  lasted  well 
into  the  night.  But  neither  the  bride  or  bridegroom  nor 
any  of  the  grand  Spanish  seigniors  stayed  for  that :  a  small 
procession  was  formed  soon  after  the  conclusion  of  the 
banquet,  consisting  of  the  parents  of  bride  and  bridegroom 
flanked  by  a  guard  of  honour,  which  conducted  the  young 
couple  from  the  Town  House  to  the  residence  of  the  High- 
Bailiff,  which  was  to  remain  their  home  until  such  time  as 
a  more  fitting  permanent  abode  could  be  provided  for  them. 


II 


And  now  the  escort  had  taken  leave  of  the  young  people : 
don  Juan  de  Vargas  and  the  High-Bailiff  had  to  return 
to  their  guests  at  the  Town  House  and  Clemence  van  Rycke 
had  gone  to  rest.  The  arquebusiers  had  gone  and  the  serv- 
ing men  and  women — with  the  exception  of  Pierre  and 
Jeanne — had  gone  to  watch  the  illuminations  and  to  listen 
to  the  strains  of  the  orchestra  which  could  be  heard  quite 
plainly  through  the  open  windows  of  the  Town  House. 

Clemence  van  Rycke  had  conducted  the  bride  upstairs  to 
the  nuptial-chamber.  With  her  own  hands  she  had  drawn 
a  high-backed  chair  close  to  the  fire  and  made  the  young 
girl  sit  down.  Mark  then  placed  a  footstool  to  her  feet  and 
a  down  cushion  to  her  back. 

Lenora  accepted  all  these  little  attentions  without  a  word, 
but  with  a  grateful  smile.  She  was  far  too  tired  to  speak, 
and  when  Clemence  finally  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and 
whispered  a  motherly:  "God  bless  you,  my  child!"  she 
could  hardly  murmur  a  feeble  "Good-night!"  in  reply. 


134  LEATHERFACE 

Then  Madame  van  Rycke  went  away,  and  the  house 
seemed  suddenly  to  become  very  still.  Lenora  was  still  in 
her  bridal  gown,  which  was  of  stiff  white  brocade,  with 
very  high  starched  collar  and  hard  stomacher  that  cramped 
her  movements  and  made  her  sides  ache.  Her  hair  had 
been  combed  away  from  her  forehead  and  only  a  few  unruly 
curls  lay  moist  against  her  brow :  her  delicate  skin  rebelled 
against  the  conventional  white  and  pink  unguents  which  the 
careful  fingers  of  a  highly-trained  waiting  woman  had  laid 
upon  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  the  dark  lines  of  a  black 
pencil  round  her  lashes  could  not  add  lustre  to  her  lumi- 
nous dark  eyes  which,  despite  fatigue,  shone  with  marvellous 
brilliancy. 

She  sat  with  hands  folded  before  her,  staring  into  the  fire, 
and  the  flames  in  wanton  frolic  threw  a  golden  glow  upon 
her  face  and  her  gown  and  deep  blue  shadows  all  around 
her.  Mark  van  Rycke — unseen  by  her — stood  at  the  other 
end  of  the  monumental  hearth,  one  arm  resting  against  the 
ledge,  his  head  against  his  hand,  so  that  his  face  was  com- 
pletely in  shadow  and  she  could  not  know  that  he  was 
watching  her. 

"You  are  tired,  Madonna?"  he  asked  after  a  little  while, 
and  she  replied,  pathetically,  like  a  child  about  to  cry : 

"Very  tired,  Messire." 

"It  has  been  a  long  and  trying  day  for  you,"  he  con- 
tinued lightly.  "I  confess  to  being  very  tired  myself,  and 
as  soon  as  Jeanne  comes  to  wait  on  you,  I  would  beg  of  you 
that  I  might  take  my  leave." 

Then  as  she  said  nothing,  but  continued  to  stare  into 
the  fire  in  a  listless  manner,  he  added  a  little  impatiently: 

"Jeanne  will  not  be  long;  she  attends  upon  my  mother 
every  night,  but  will  be  at  your  service  directly.  Can  you 
put  up  with  my  company,  Madonna,  till  she  come?" 


"I  am  at  your  service,  Messire,"  she  rejoined  stiffly,  "if 
there  is  aught  you  wish  to  say  to  me." 

"How  cold  you  are,  sweetheart,"  he  said  good-humouredly. 
"It  would  seem  as  if  we  were  still  in  the  presence  of  that 
awe-inspiring  duenna  of  yours:  what  was  her  name? — I 
forget — but  by  the  Mass !  I  tell  you,  sweet,  that  she  froze 
the  very  marrow  in  my  bones  .  .  .  and  you  were  so  formal 
in  her  presence  too — brrrr ! — it  makes  me  shiver  to  think  of 
those  half -hours  spent  during  the  past  week  in  such  a  freez- 
ing atmosphere !" 

He  laughed — a  quaint  little  laugh — half  merry  and  half 
shy,  and  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  he  drew  a  low  chair 
forward  and  sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire,  close  to  her. 
Even  then  she  did  not  turn  to  look  at  him. 

"Had  it  not  been  for  your  eyes,  Madonna,"  he  said  softly, 
"I  would  have  sworn  that  you  were  fashioned  of  marble." 

Now  he  was  leaning  a  little  forward,  his  elbow  resting 
on  his  knee,  his  hand  shading  his  face  from  the  light  of 
the  fire.  He  was  studying  her  face  closely,  and  thought 
that  he  had  never  seen  any  woman  quite  so  beautiful. 
"Laurence  was  a  fool !"  he  was  saying  to  himself  as  he  took 
in  every  detail  of  the  perfect  face,  the  delicate  contour  of 
the  cheeks,  the  pearly  whiteness  of  the  skin,  the  exquisite 
line  of  chin  and  throat,  and  above  all  those  dark,  glowing, 
unfathomable  eyes  which  betrayed  all  the  latent  fire  and 
passion  which  coldness  of  demeanour  strove  vainly  to  con- 
ceal. "Laurence  was  a  fool !  He  would  have  fallen  madly 
in  love  with  this  beautiful  creature,  and  would  have  made 
her  happy  and  contented  with  her  lot,  whilst  the  bonds  of 
matrimony  would  have  sat  more  lightly  on  him  than  on 
me." 

He  sighed,  feeling  a  little  sorry  for  himself,  but  never- 
theless he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  captured  hers — an 


136  LEATHERFACE 

exquisitely  fashioned  little  hand  it  was,  delicate  to  the  touch 
and  pulsating  with  life,  like  a  prisoned  bird.  Mark  was 
a  young  man — and  one  who  had  already  got  out  of  life 
most  of  the  joys  which  it  holds,  but  just  for  a  moment  he 
felt  a  curious  thrill  of  unaccustomed  pleasure,  in  holding 
this  perfect  thing — donna  Lenora's  hand.  His  own  hands 
were  strong,  yet  slender,  finely  shaped  and  warm  to  the 
touch,  but  it  must  be  supposed  that  as  he  held  hers,  he  must 
— quite  unconsciously — have  hurt  her,  for  suddenly  he  saw 
that  she  turned  even  whiter  than  she  had  been  before,  her 
eyes  closed  and  quite  abruptly  she  withdrew  her  hand. 

"Do  I  anger  you,  Madonna?"  he  asked. 

"Nay,  Messire,"  she  replied  coldly. 

"May  I  not  then  hold  your  hand — for  a  very  little  while 
in  mine  ?" 

"If  you  wish." 

But  she  did  not  voluntarily  put  her  hand  out  to  him,  and 
he  made  no  second  attempt  to  capture  it. 

"We  do  not  seem  to  be  getting  along  very  fast,"  he  said 
quaintly. 

She  smiled.  "Seeing  how  we  came  to  be  together,  Mes- 
sire," she  said,  "we  were  not  like  to  have  much  in  common." 

"Yet,  we  shall  have  to  pass  our  lives  together,  Madonna." 

"Alas!"  she  sighed. 

"I  own  that  the  prospect  cannot  be  very  alluring  for  you 
— it  doth  not  seem  to  suggest  an  interminable  vista  of  hap- 
piness. ..." 

"Oh!"  she  murmured  as  if  involuntarily,  "I  was  not 
thinking  of  happiness." 

"How  strange,"  he  retorted  gently,  "now,  whenever  I 
look  at  you,  Madonna,  I  invariably  think  of  happiness." 

"Happiness?    With  me?" 

"With  you,  sweetheart,  if  you  will  but  allow  me  to  work 


A  STRANGER  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND    137 

for  that  object.  After  all,  my  dear,"  he  added  with  that 
whimsical  smile  of  his,  "we  are  both  young,  you  and  I ;  life 
lies  all  before  us.  I  own  that  we  have  made  a  sorry  begin- 
ning, that  the  first  chapter  of  our  book  of  life  hath  been 
ill-writ  and  by  clumsy  hands.  But  suppose  we  turn  over 
a  few  pages,  do  you  not  think  that  we  might  happen  on  a 
more  romantic  passage?" 

He  drew  nearer  still  to  her,  so  near  that  as  he  bent  toward 
her  his  knee  touched  the  ground  and  his  arm  instinctively 
stretched  out  behind  her,  so  that  at  the  least  movement  on 
her  part  it  would  close  around  her  and  hold  her — as  indeed 
he  longed  that  it  should  do.  She  was  so  very  beautiful,  and 
that  air  of  settled  melancholy,  of  childlike  helplessness  and 
pathos  in  her  made  an  irresistible  appeal  to  him. 

"Madonna,"  he  whispered,  "an  you  would  let  me,  I 
should  like  to  make  love  to  you  now." 

But  she,  with  a  quick,  impatient  jerk  suddenly  sat  bolt 
upright  and  freed  herself  almost  roughly  from  that  arm 
which  was  nearly  encircling  her  shoulders. 

"Love!"  she  said  with  cold  sarcasm.    "You?" 

He  bit  his  lip  and  in  his  turn  drew  back :  the  dour  look 
in  his  face  became  more  marked  and  the  merry  twinkle  died 
out  of  his  eyes :  his  knee  no  longer  touched  the  ground,  but 
he  remained  quite  self-possessed  and  said,  still  quite  good- 
humouredly : 

"Yes,  I — your  husband  as  it  happens,  Madonna.  Would 
love  from  me  be  so  very  distasteful  to  you  then?" 

"I  have  no  love  for  you,  Messire,  as  you  well  know," 
she  said  coldly.  "I  told  you  what  my  feelings  were  toward 
you,  the  first  time  that  we  met — at  the  Town  House,  the 
night  of  our  betrothal." 

"Yes,"  he  owned,  "you  spoke  very  plainly  then." 

"And  since  then  I  have  had  no  cause  to  change." 


138  LEATHERFACE 

"I  am  as  distasteful  to  you  as  I  ever  was?"  he  asked 
with  droll  consternation. 

"Oh!— not  distasteful,  Messire." 

"Come !  that's  something." 

"Enough,  methinks." 

"Not  by  a  long  way,  but  it  is  a  beginning.  To-day  I  am 
not  altogether  distasteful — to-morrow  I  might  e'en  be 
tolerated  .  .  .  in  a  week  toleration  might  turn  to  liking 
.  .  .  and  after  that,  liking  to  ..." 

"Never,"  she  broke  in  firmly,  "I  should  have  to  forget 
that  which  is  indelibly  writ  upon  my  memory." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"That  you  married  me  without  love  and  without  wooing 
— bought  me  like  a  bundle  of  goods  just  because  my  father 
is  powerful  and  yours  ambitious.  A  week  ago  we  were  be- 
trothed, Messire.  Since  then  how  hath  your  time  been 
passed  ?" 

"In  wild,  ecstatic  half-hours  spent  in  the  presence  of 
your  duenna  and  sitting  opposite  to  the  chilliest  bride  in 
Christendom,"  he  said  whimsically. 

"And  the  rest  of  the  time  in  the  taverns  of  Ghent,"  she 
retorted  hotly,  "and  places  of  ill-repute." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Oh!  your  reputation  is  well  known:  how  could  it  fail 
to  reach  mine  ears." 

"Evil  tongues  always  make  themselves  heard,  Madonna," 
he  said,  still  speaking  very  quietly,  although  now  he  sat 
quite  apart  from  her,  with  his  long  legs  stretched  out  before 
him  and  his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees.  "I  would  you 
had  not  listened." 

"I  would  I  had  not  heard,"  she  assented,  "for  then  I 
should  not  have  added  one  more  humiliation  to  all  those 
which  I  have  had  to  endure." 


A  STRANGER  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND    139 

"And  I  another  regret,"  he  said  with  a  short  sigh.  "But 
even  if  evil  tongues  spoke  true,  Madonna,"  he  continued 
more  lightly,  "the  shame  of  my  conduct  would  sit  on  me 
and  not  on  you.  They  call  me  a  ne'er-do-well  in  the  city 
— and  have  it  seems  done  so  in  your  hearing !  Well !  let  me 
plead  guilty  for  the  past  and  lay  my  contrition  at  your 
feet." 

Once  more  the  more  gentle  mood  overcame  him.  The 
house  was  so  still  and  there  was  something  quite  unaccount- 
ably sweet  in  this  sentimental  dalliance  with  this  exquisitely 
beautiful  woman  who  was  his  wife — sentimental  indeed,  for 
though  she  appeared  cold  and  even  cruelly  sarcastic,  he  felt 
the  strength  of  a  fine  nature  in  her.  Here  was  no  mere 
doll,  mere  puppet  and  slave  of  man  content  to  take  her  lot 
as  her  family  or  her  husband  chose  to  shape  it — content 
to  endure  or  accept  a  husband's  love  without  more  return 
than  passive  obedience  and  meaningless  kisses.  At  the 
back  of  his  mind  he  still  thought  Laurence  a  fool,  and  felt 
how  well  suited  two  such  warm  natures  would  have  been 
to  one  another,  but  for  the  moment  a  strange  desire  seized 
him,  to  win  a  kind  look  from  this  beautiful  woman  on  his 
own  account,  to  see  her  smile  on  him,  willingly  and  confid- 
ingly, to  win  her  friendship  and  her  trust,  even  though  no 
warmer  feeling  should  ever  crop  up  between  him  and  her. 

"Madonna,"  he  said,  and  once  again  he  dropped  his  knee 
to  the  ground  and  leaned  toward  her  so  that  her  warm 
breath  touched  his  hand,  which  he  placed  upon  hers,  "there 
are  many  men  in  the  world  who  ne'er  do  well  because  they 
have  been  left  to  the  companionship  of  those  who  do  equally 
badly.  Will  you  deign  to  believe  that  all  the  evil  that  is  in 
me  lies  very  much  on  the  surface?  They  call  me  wild  and 
extravagant — even  my  mother  calls  me  careless  and  shal- 
low— but  if  you  smiled  on  me,  Madonna,  methinks  that 


140  LEATHERFACE 

something  which  lies  buried  deep  down  in  my  heart  would 
stir  me  to  an  effort  to  become  worthy  of  you." 

His  voice — habitually  somewhat  rough  and  always 
slightly  ironical — was  wonderfully  gentle  now.  Instinc- 
tively, perhaps  even  against  her  will,  Lenora  turned  her 
head  slowly  round  and  looked  at  him.  He  had  never  before 
looked  so  straight  and  closely  into  her  eyes;  and,  as  she 
bore  his  scrutinising  glance,  the  warm  blood  slowly  mounted 
to  her  cheeks.  Her  face  was  partly  in  shadow,  only  the 
outline  of  her  small  head  was  outlined  by  the  ruddy  glow 
of  the  fire,  and  the  tiny  ear  shone,  transparent  and  crim- 
son, like  a  shell,  with  the  golden  tendrils  of  her  fair  hair 
gently  stirring  in  the  draught  from  the  wide,  open  hearth. 

As  she  was  excited  and  perhaps  a  little  frightened,  her 
breath  came  and  went  rapidly,  and  her  lips  were  slightly 
parted  showing  a  faint  glimmer  of  pearly  teeth  beyond. 
Mark  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  his  head ;  to  be  alone 
with  this  adorable  woman  so  close  to  him,  to  feel  her  pant- 
ing like  a  young  creature  full  of  life  and  passion,  slightly 
leaning  against  his  arm,  to  look  into  those  wonderful,  dark 
eyes  and  know  that  she  was  his,  was  indeed  more  than  man 
could  endure  in  cold  blood. 

The  next  moment  he  had  caught  her  with  irresistible 
masterfulness  in  both  his  arms  and  drawn  her  down  to 
him  as  he  knelt,  whilst  his  eager  lips  sought  hers  with  a 
mad  longing  for  a  kiss.  But  with  an  agonised  cry  of 
horror,  she  pushed  him  away  with  all  her  feeble  might. 
For  a  moment  she  struggled  in  his  arms  like  a  wild  creature 
panting  for  liberty  and  murmuring  mad,  incoherent  words : 
"Let  me  go !  Let  me  go !  I  hate  you !" — the  next,  she  was 
already  free,  and  he  had  struggled  to  his  feet.  Now  he 
stood  at  some  little  distance  from  her,  looking  down  on  her 


A  STRANGER  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND    141 

with  a  scared  gaze  and  passing  his  hand  mechanically  back- 
wards and  forwards  across  his  brow. 

"Your  pardon,  Madonna,"  he  murmured,  "I  did  not 
understand  that  you  could  hate  me  so." 

The  fire  was  burning  low,  and  the  two  candles  in  tall 
sconces  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  threw  but  a  fitful 
light  upon  that  hunched  up  young  figure  in  the  big,  high- 
backed  chair,  cowering  there  half  frightened  at  her  own 
violence,  tired  out  with  emotion,  her  nerves  quivering  after 
the  final,  tense  moment  which  had  left  her  exhausted  and 
almost  unconscious. 

Mark  could  only  see  her  dimly;  the  stiff  folds  of  her 
wedding  gown  and  the  high  starched  collar  were  alone 
visible  in  the  gloom ;  she  had  hidden  her  face  in  the  cushion 
of  the  chair.  Presently  a  sob  rose  to  her  throat,  and  then 
another,  and  soon  she  was  crying  just  like  a  tired  child. 
Mark  felt  that  he  had  been  a  brute  and  was  seized  with 
an  infinite  pity  for  her. 

"Madonna,"  he  said  gently,  "I  think  I  can  hear  Jeanne's 
footstep  in  the  corridor.  May  I  call  to  her  to  come  and 
attend  on  you?" 

"I  thank  you,  Messire,"  murmured  Lenora,  who  was 
making  a  great  effort  to  swallow  her  tears. 

"Then  I  pray  you  dry  your  eyes,"  he  pleaded,  "I  would 
be  so  ashamed  if  Jeanne  saw  that  I  had  made  you  cry." 

She  looked  up  and  even  in  the  gloom  he  thought  that 
he  could  see  a  swift  smile  pass  across  her  face. 

"To-morrow  an  you  desire,"  he  continued  more  lightly, 
"your  old  dragon  Inez  shall  be  here  to  wait  on  you,  until 
then  I  trust  that  you  will  not  feel  too  lonely,  away  from 
those  you  care  for.  My  mother  is  an  angel.  You  will 
love  her,  I  think,  and  my  brother  Laurence  is  learned  and 
well-read  .  .  .  my  father  too  is  kind.  We  will  all  strive, 


142  LEATHERFACE 

Madonna,  to  make  you  somewhat  more  contented  with 
your  lot." 

"You  mistake,  Messire,"  she  stammered,  "I  ..." 
But  already  he  had  bowed  before  her  and  bidden  her  a 
formal  good-night.  She  had  meant  to  give  him  her  hand 
and  to  ask  his  forgiveness,  for  indeed  she  had  behaved  like 
an  ill-tempered  child — a  bad  beginning  for  the  role  which 
she  had  sworn  to  play — but  he  had  gone,  and  before  she 
could  call  him  back  he  was  speeding  down  the  corridor  and 
anon  she  heard  him  loudly  calling  to  Jeanne. 


m 


Lenora  did  not  see  her  husband  during  the  whole  of  the 
next  day,  and  on  the  one  occasion  when  she  ventured  to  ask 
after  him — with  well-feigned  indifference  lest  any  one 
guessed  that  all  was  not  well  between  them — Clemence  van 
Rycke  sighed,  Messire  the  High-Bailiff  gave  a  forced  laugh 
and  Laurence  van  Rycke  frowned  with  obvious  anger.  And 
in  the  evening — when  she  retired  to  her  room  and  felt 
strangely  irritable  and  hurt  at  being  left  in  such  solitude — 
she  questioned  Inez,  who  had  been  allowed  to  come  and 
wait  on  her  and  who  had  a  marvellous  faculty  for  gleaning 
all  the  gossip  that  was  going  about  the  town. 

"They  do  say,  my  angel,"  said  the  old  woman  with  that 
complacency  which  characterises  your  true  gossip,  "that 
Messire  Mark  van  Rycke  hath  spent  his  whole  day  in  the 
tavern  opposite.  It  is  known  as  the  'Three  Weavers,'  and 
many  Spanish  officers  are  quartered  in  there  now." 

"Heaven  protect  us!"  ejaculated  Lenora  involuntarily, 
"I  trust  they  did  not  quarrel." 

"Quarrel,  my  saint?"  retorted  Inez  with  a  spiteful  little 


A  STRANGER  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND   143 

laugh,  for  she  had  no  liking  for  these  Netherlanders. 
"Nay!  Messire  van  Rycke  would  not  dare  quarrel  with  a 
Spanish  officer.  No!  no!  it  seems  that  the  tapperij  of  the 
'Three  Weavers'  was  most  convivial  all  the  day.  It  is 
always  frequented  by  Spanish  officers,  although  the  inn- 
keeper is  said  to  be  an  abominable  heretic :  there  was  much 
gambling  and  heavy  drinking  there,  so  they  say,  and  even 
now  ..." 

And  as  if  to  confirm  the  old  woman's  say,  there  came 
from  the  house  opposite  and  through  the  open  windows 
loud  noise  of  gay  laughter  and  hilarious  song.  A  deep 
flush  rose  to  Lenora's  face. 

"Close  that  window,  Inez,"  she  said  peremptorily,  "the 
night  hath  turned  chilly." 

She  went  to  sit  by  the  fire,  and  curtly  dismissed  the 
gossiping  old  woman.  She  knew  all  that  she  had  wanted 
to  know,  and  the  flush  of  shame  deepened  on  her  cheek. 
There  had  been  times  during  the  past  week  when  a  vague 
hope  had  stirred  in  her  heart  that  mayhap  life  did  hold  a 
small  measure  of  happiness  for  her.  There  were  times 
when  she  did  not  altogether  dislike  Mark  van  Rycke,  when 
that  winning  merriment  and  good-humour  which  always 
lurked  in  his  eyes  provoked  a  response  in  her  own  .  .  . 
and  others,  when  certain  notes  of  gentleness  in  his  voice 
caused  a  strange  thrill  in  her  heart  and  brought  tears  into 
her  eyes,  which  were  not  altogether  tears  of  sorrow.  She 
had  also  felt  deeply  remorseful  at  her  conduct  last  night 
at  the  cruel  words:  "I  hate  you!"  which  she  had  flung  so 
roughly  in  his  face:  indeed  she  could  scarcely  sleep  all 
night,  for  she  was  persistently  haunted  by  the  dazed  look  in 
those  merry,  grey  eyes  of  his  which  had  just  for  one  brief 
moment  flashed  tender  reproach  on  her. 

But  now  she  felt  nothing  but  shame — shame  that  she 


144.  LEATHERFACE 

should  ever  have  thought  tenderly  of  a  man  who  could  so 
wrong  her,  who  had  so  little  thought  of  her  that  he  could 
spend  his  whole  day  in  a  tavern  whilst  his  young  girl-bride 
was  left  to  loneliness  and  boredom  in  a  house  where  she 
was  a  total  stranger.  She  thought  him  vindictive  and  cruel : 
already  she  had  thought  so  last  night  when  he  went  away 
hurriedly  without  waiting  for  the  apology  which  was  hov- 
ering on  her  lips.  Now  she  was  quite  sure  that  she  hated 
him,  and  the  next  time  she  told  him  so,  she  certainly  would 
not  regret  it. 

But  somehow  she  felt  more  forlorn  than  she  had  been 
before  that  dotard  Inez  had  filled  her  ears  with  gossip.  The 
house  as  usual  was  very  still,  but  Lenora  knew  that  the 
family  had  not  yet  gone  to  rest.  Awhile  ago  she  thought 
that  she  had  heard  footsteps  and  a  murmur  of  voices  in 
the  hall  below.  A  desire  for  company  seized  the  young  girl, 
and  she  racked  her  brain  for  an  excuse  to  go  down  to  her 
mother-in-law,  who  she  knew  was  kind  and  who  perhaps 
would  cheer  and  comfort  her  a  little  and  give  her  kind  pity 
in  her  loneliness. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   REBELS 


AT  this  same  hour  in  the  small  withdrawing-room  which 
adjoined  the  dining-hall  in  Messire  van  Rycke's  house, 
five  men  were  sitting  round  the  gate-legged  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  At  the  top  of  the  table  sat  Clemence 
van  Rycke,  in  a  tall  chair  covered  with  crimson  velvet; 
opposite  to  her  sat  a  man  who  was  dressed  in  rough  clothes 
of  dark-coloured  buffle,  and  whose  ruff  was  of  plain,  coarse 
linen ;  he  wore  a  leather  belt  to  which  was  fastened  a  heavy 
wallet,  and  high,  tough  boots  that  reached  above  his  knee. 
His  black  hat  and  mantle  lay  on  a  chair  close  by.  In  fact, 
his  clothes — more  than  ordinarily  sombre  and  plain — were 
such  as  the  serving  man  of  a  poor  burgher  might  wear; 
nevertheless  this  man  had  round  his  neck  a  crimson  ribbon 
to  which  was  attached  a  gold  pendant  in  the  shape  of  a 
dead  wether — which  is  the  badge  worn  by  the  Knights  of 
the  Golden  Fleece. 

When  this  man  spoke  the  others  listened  to  him  with 
marked  deference,  and  Laurence  van  Rycke  stood  all  the 
time  beside  his  chair  and  served  him  with  wine.  In  appear- 
ance he  was  spare  of  build  and  tall,  he  wore  full  beard  and 
moustache  and  hair  brushed  away  from  an  unusually  high 
forehead.  His  eyes  were  prominent  and  very  keen  and 
astute  as  well  as  frank  and  kindly  in  expression,  and  his 
eyebrows  were  fully  and  markedly  arched. 

145 


146  LEATHERFACE 

Clemence  van  Rycke  was  the  only  woman  present.  The 
other  three  men  were  all  dressed  in  dark  clothes,  and  their 
black  mantles  hung  over  the  backs  of  their  chairs.  The 
room  in  which  these  half-dozen  people  were  assembled  was 
narrow  and  oak-panelled ;  at  the  end  of  it  there  was  a  low 
and  very  wide  window  recess,  across  which  heavy  curtains 
of  crimson  velvet  had  been  drawn ;  at  the  side  a  door  gave 
on  the  dining-hall ;  this  door  was  open  and  the  hall  beyond 
was  in  complete  darkness. 

The  whole  room  was  only  dimly  lighted  by  one  thick 
wax  candle  which  burned  in  a  tall  sconce  that  stood  on  a 
bracket  in  an  angle  of  the  room,  and  threw  a  fitful  light  on 
the  grave  faces  of  the  men  sitting  around  the  table. 

"The  High-Bailiff  hath  business  at  the  Town  House," 
Clemence  van  Rycke  was  saying  in  reply  to  the  stranger 
who  sat  opposite  to  her.  "He  will  not  be  home  until  mid- 
night. My  son  Mark,  too,  is  from  home,"  she  added  more 
curtly.  "Your  Highness  can  discuss  your  plans  with  these 
gentlemen  in  all  security.  And  if  you  wish  me  to  re- 
tire ..." 

She  half  rose  as  if  she  meant  to  go,  but  a  word  from  the 
stranger  kept  her  in  her  place. 

"I  entreat  you  to  stay  with  us,  mevrouw,"  he  said;  "we 
would  wish  you  to  hear  all  that  we  have  to  say.  Of  a 
truth  we  have  no  more  loyal  adherents  than  mevrouw  van 
Rycke  and  her  son,  and  what  we  should  have  done  in  this 
city  without  their  help  I  do  not  know." 

He  turned  at  the  same  time  to  Laurence  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  him.  The  young  man  at  once  bent  the 
knee  and  kissed  the  gracious  hand. 

"The  little  that  we  have  done,  Monseigneur,"  said  Clem- 
ence softly,  "hath  been  done  with  great  gladness  seeing  that 
it  was  in  your  service." 


THE  REBELS  147 

"Not  only  mine,  mevrouw,"  rejoined  the  stranger.  "I 
am  but  the  instrument  of  God's  will,  an  humble  follower 
of  His  cause.  What  you  have  done  was  done  for  Him  and 
for  the  cause  of  liberty,  of  justice  and  of  right." 

"May  God's  blessing  rest  upon  your  Highness'  enter- 
prise," murmured  Clemence  fervently.  "For  God  and 
William  of  Orange  is  our  cry.  Your  cause  is  the  cause  of 
God." 

"Alas!"  said  the  Prince,  with  a  sigh  of  utter  weariness 
and  dejection,  "you  know  how  little  success  I  have  had  in 
this  city  .  .  .  promises!  promises!  promises  I  have  in 
plenty,  and  a  couple  of  thousand  young  men  from  the  town 
have  rallied  to  my  standard.  A  poor  result  indeed  after 
all  my  efforts!  So  much  tyranny!"  he  exclaimed  bitterly, 
"such  wanton  oppression!  the  dastardly  outrages  at  Mons 
and  at  Mechlin !  and  only  two  thousand  men  among  thirty, 
willing  to  take  up  arms  to  defend  their  liberty,  their  ancient 
privileges,  their  very  homes !" 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  buried  his  head  in 
his  hands.  Clemence  van  Rycke  was  silent  as  were  the 
men ;  their  hearts  echoed  all  the  bitterness  which  had  surged 
up  in  William  of  Orange's  heart. 

"Yet  your  Highness  refuses  to  take  me  with  you,"  said 
Laurence  with  gentle  reproach. 

"Only  for  the  moment,  Messire,"  rejoined  the  Prince, 
"only  for  the  moment.  Never  fear  but  I  will  send  for  you 
as  soon  as  I  have  need  of  you.  Can  I  afford  to  reject  so 
devoted  a  champion?  But  for  the  moment  you  can  do  so 
much  more  for  me  by  staying  quietly  at  home  than  if  you 
followed  me  on  my  recruiting  campaign.  I  have  not  yet 
exhausted  the  resources  and  enthusiasm  of  this  city — of 
that  I  feel  confident.  I  shall  try  again— for  another  week. 


148  LEATHERFACE 

There  are  still  several  likely  houses  that  I  have  not  visited, 
and  whose  cordial  invitation  I  have  received  .  .  ." 

"Beware  of  treachery,  your  Highness!"  broke  in  Clem- 
ence  van  Rycke  suddenly. 

"Nay,  Madonna,"  he  said,  whilst  that  same  winning  smile 
lit  up  the  sombre  dejection  of  his  face,  "but  have  I  not 
told  you  that  my  dragon  is  on  the  watch  ?  Not  a  step  am 
I  allowed  to  take  in  this  city  without  his  permission.  He 
allowed  me  to  come  to  this  house  to-night,  because  he  knew 
that  I  desired  to  express  my  gratitude  to  you  personally. 
But  I  can  assure  you,"  he  added,  laughing  softly  to  him- 
self, "I  had  to  fight  for  the  permission." 

"Is  that  not  insolence?"  exclaimed  one  of  the  others 
hotly.  "Were  we  not  to  be  trusted  with  the  care  of  your 
sacred  person?" 

"You  all,  seigniors,  and  Messire  van  Rycke  and  his 
mother,"  rejoined  the  Prince;  "but  there  are  others  in  this 
house.  Do  not  blame  my  devoted  Leather  face,"  he  con- 
tinued earnestly;  "but  for  him  I  should  not  be  here  now. 
No  man  could  be  more  watchful,  no  man  more  brave  or 
more  resourceful.  Countless  times  did  he  save  me  from 
the  assassin's  dagger  and  the  poisoner's  cup.  If  my  life 
is  necessary  for  the  cause  of  freedom  and  justice,  then 
have  freedom  and  justice  in  Leatherface  their  truest  and 
most  efficient  champion." 

"Amen  to  that,"  rejoined  Clemence  van  Rycke  with 
fervour.  "I  only  wish  I  knew  who  he  was,  that  I  might 
pray  more  personally  for  him." 

"Ah!  we  none  of  us  know  who  he  is,  Madonna,"  said 
William  of  Orange  more  lightly.  "He  is  Leatherface,  and 
that  is  enough  for  us.  And  this  reminds  me  that  he  begged 
me  to  be  back  at  my  lodgings  by  ten  o'clock,  so  I  have  not 


THE  REBELS  149 

much  time  to  spend  in  this  pleasing  gossip.     Shall  we  to 
serious  business  now?" 

"At  your  Highness'  service,"  replied  Laurence,  and  the 
others  also  murmured  a  quick  assent. 


ii 


"Well  then,  seigniors,  having  decided  on  our  coup  we 
have  only  the  details  to  consider.  You  have  all  assured 
me  that  the  Duke  of  Alva  will  come  to  Ghent  within  the 
next  few  days,  and  that  our  two  thousand  recruits  are  ready 
to  carry  out  the  orders  which  we  have  framed  for  them." 

"The  numbers  will  be  doubled  within  the  next  few  days," 
interposed  one  of  the  grave  seigniors  with  conviction. 
"Your  Highness'  presence  in  the  town — though  only  known 
to  a  very  few  loyalists — hath  wrought  miracles  already." - 

"The  wave  of  enthusiasm  is  spreading,"  asserted  another., 

"Well!  if  we  had  more  men,"- quoth  the  Prince  cheerily, 
"our  plan  would,  of  a  surety,  be  more  certain  of  success. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  altogether  approve  of  the  plan — for  as 
you  know,  I  am  a  soldier  and  have  no  great  mind  for  plots 
and  conspiracies;  but  those  on  whose  judgment  I  place 
infinite  confidence — men  such  as  Messire  Paul  Buys,  pen- 
sionary of  Leyden,  Marnix  of  Tholouse,  Marnix  of  St. 
Aldegonde  and  others,  all  approve  of  it,  and  I  have  there- 
fore given  it  mine  assent." 

He  sank  his  voice  yet  lower  to  a  whisper,  and  he  leaned 
right  across  the  table  as  did  the  other  men  so  that  their 
ears  were  quite  close  to  his  mouth. 

"The  Duke  of  Alva  comes  to  Ghent  in  about  a  week's 
time,"  he  continued.  "The  idea  is  to  seize  his  person  and 
hold  him  a  prisoner  here  and  an  hostage  whilst  we  demand 


150  LEATHERFACE 

the  withdrawal  of  all  the  Spanish  troops  from  the  Nether- 
lands and  the  abolition  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition." 

"To  seize  the  person  of  the  Duke  of  Alva!"  murmured 
Clemence  van  Rycke,  and  so  great  was  the  terror  which  the 
tyrant  inspired  in  every  Flemish  heart,  that  even  those  who 
already  knew  of  this  daring  plot  were  appalled  at  the  mag- 
nitude of  such  an  outrage. 

"Why  not  ?"  quoth  William  of  Orange  earnestly.  "Less 
than  a  hundred  years  ago  the  town  of  Bruges  held  the 
Archduke  Maximilian  King  of  the  Romans  a  prisoner 
within  her  walls,  until  he  swore  to  dismiss  all  foreign  troops 
from  the  Netherlands  within  four  days,  and  gave  hostages 
for  his  fidelity.  What  Bruges  did  then,  cannot  Ghent  do 
now?  With  Alva  a  prisoner  in  our  hands,  we  can  dictate 
our  terms  to  the  King.  It  is  a  bold  coup,  seigniors,  I  own, 
but  it  hath  every  chance  of  success." 

A  murmur  of  approval  went  round  the  table.  Clemence 
alone  was  silent.  She  was  old  and  feeble,  perhaps  she  had 
seen  more  than  one  bold  coup  fail,  and  terrible  reprisals 
follow  such  failures;  but  Laurence  was  full  of  eagerness 
and  enthusiasm. 

"It  cannot  fail,"  he  asserted  vehemently.  "Are  there  not 
two  thousand  men  in  the  city  who  are  devoted  to  your 
Highness  heart  and  soul,  and  who  are  ready  to  give  their 
lives  for  your  cause?  Two  thousand,  and  within  three 
days  there  will  be  five!  more  than  enough  for  such  a  bold 
coup.  It  will  and  must  succeed!  One  lucky  hazard,  and 
we  may  win  all  that  we  have  fought  for,  lived  for,  died 
for,  for  over  a  century." 

"It  cannot  fail !"  came  with  fervent  conviction  from  every 
one  of  the  others. 

"Ghent  can  do  what  Bruges  hath  done !"  they  affirmed. 


THE  REBELS  151 

"With  the  tyrant  a  prisoner  in  our  hands,  we  can  dictate 
terms  as  Bruges  did  an  hundred  years  ago." 

"Well  said,  seigniors,"  rejoined  William  of  Orange, 
"and  your  approval — you  who  know  this  city  so  much  bet- 
ter than  I  do — hath  given  me  further  encouragement.  And 
now,"  he  added  with  serious  earnestness,  "you  will  want  to 
know  why  I  convened  this  meeting,  which  by  Mevrouw  van 
Rycke's  graciousness  I  have  been  able  to  do,  and  you  will 
wish  to  hear  what  role  hath  been  assigned  to  each  of  you 
in  the  great  event  which  we  are  preparing." 

"Let  me  but  offer  my  life  .  .  ."  interposed  Laurence 
eagerly. 

"Nay!  not  your  life,  I  hope,  Messire,"  quoth  the  Prince 
with  a  smile,  "your  forethought  and  prudence  and  your 
united  co-operation  are  what  we  want.  Ye  are  risking  your 
lives,  seigniors,  in  this  enterprise,  that  I'll  not  deny — but 
ye  are  men  and  know  which  you  value  most,  your  life  or 
the  very  existence  of  your  nation  which  is  threatened  with 
complete  destruction." 

"For  Orange,  for  faith  and  for  liberty!"  said  one  of 
the  men  simply,  and  the  others  merely  murmured:  "Tell 
us  what  we  must  do." 

"You  must  be  wary  and  alert  above  all  things,  seigniors, 
for  I  have  chosen  you  for  a  very  arduous  task  in  connection 
with  this  enterprise,  and  you  must  recognise  that  however 
carefully  we  organise  it,  there  will  always  be  one  weak  link 
in  the  chain  which  we  are  forging  for  the  capture  of  that 
abominable  tyrant,  the  Duke  of  Alva." 

"One  weak  link?" 

"Yes.  We  do  not  and  cannot  know  for  certain  on  which 
date  Alva  proposes  to  come  to  Ghent.  The  dates  of  his 
visits  to  Flemish  towns  are  always  kept  a  secret  until  the 
very  moment  of  departure." 


152  LEATHERFACE 

"He  dreads  assassination,"  interposed  one  man  with  a 
sneer. 

"On  the  last  occasion  of  the  Duke's  visit  to  Ghent,"  said 
Clemence  van  Rycke,  "my  husband  was  only  apprised  of 
it  by  courier  two  hours  before  his  arrival.  The  courier 
had  started  from  Brussels  a  bare  half-hour  before  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  and  his  cortege  left  the  city." 

"Precisely,  and  even  then  the  High-Bailiff  was  in  advance 
of  every  one  else  with  the  news,"  nodded  the  Prince,  "and 
that  is  where  our  difficulty  lies.  How  to  collect  together  a 
couple  of  thousand  men  at  perhaps  an  hour's  notice — men 
who  are  scattered  in  different  portions  of  this  city  and  prob- 
ably engaged  in  their  usual  avocations." 

"Where  will  their  leaders  be?" 

"Each  at  the  different  points  where  our  secret  stores  of 
arms  are  kept.  There  are  four  of  these  points  and  four 
captains  whom  I  have  appointed  to  command  five  hundred 
men  each.  Having  distributed  the  arms,  the  captains  will 
lead  their  respective  companies  to  the  Waalpoort,  where  a 
crowd  is  sure  to  collect  as  soon  as  the  rumour  has  spread  to 
the  town  that  the  Lieutenant-Governor  is  coming.  Our 
men  will  mix  with  the  crowd,  and  at  a  given  signal — when 
the  Duke's  cortege  crosses  the  bridge — they  will  rush  the 
bodyguard,  scatter  confusion  among  the  escort,  and  in  the 
melee  seize  the  person  of  Alva.  During  the  inevitable 
tumult  that  will  ensue  among  the  soldiers  and  the  populace, 
our  valuable  hostage  shall  be  conveyed  in  absolute  secrecy 
to  Het  Spanjaard's  Kasteel,  where  of  course  we  can  easily 
keep  him  a  close  prisoner  whilst  we  negotiate  with  the 
King.  But  this  of  course  is  for  the  future,  seigniors,"  he 
added,  "and  my  concern  now  is  to  explain  to  you  the  method 
which  I  and  my  councillors  have  devised  for  the  calling 


THE  REBELS  153 

together  of  our  stalwarts  as  soon  as  the  Duke's  coming  visit 
is  announced.  Have  I  your  close  attention,  seigniors  ?" 

He  had  indeed.  The  four  men  round  the  table  bent  for- 
ward more  eagerly  still  so  as  not  to  lose  one  word  of  their 
noble  chief's  commands.  But  before  they  could  formulate 
the  words  of  loyalty  and  of  enthusiasm  which  hovered  on 
their  lips,  a  soft  sound  like  the  beating  of  a  bird's  wing 
against  the  window-pane  froze  those  whispered  words  upon 
their  lips. 

Every  head  was  immediately  turned  to  the  window, 
every  face  became  rigid  and  pale,  every  brow  was  con- 
tracted with  the  effort  to  strain  the  faculty  of  hearing  to 
its  tensest  point.  It  seemed  as  if  six  pairs  of  glowing  eyes 
would  pierce  the  folds  of  the  velvet  curtain  which  hung 
before  the  window. 


in 


The  Prince  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"It  is  Leatherface,"  he  whispered,  "come  to  give  me 
warning." 

He  rose  and  would  have  gone  to  the  window,  but  Clem- 
ence  van  Rycke  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  clung  convul- 
sively to  him.  "Not  you,  Monseigneur,"  she  entreated, 
"not  you — it  might  be  a  traitor." 

Then  the  tapping  was  repeated  and  Laurence  went  cau- 
tiously up  to  the  window,  and  after  an  instant's  hesitation, 
he  suddenly  drew  the  curtains  aside  with  a  resolute  gesture.' 
Then  he  unfastened  the  tall  casement  and  threw  it  open. 

The  night  was  of  an  inky  blackness,  and  as  the  lattice 
flew  open  a  gust  of  wind  and  heavy  driving  rain  nearly 
extinguished  the  light  of  the  candle,  but  in  the  framework 
of  the  window  a  man's  head  and  shoulders  detached  them- 


154  LEATHERFACE 

selves  from  out  the  gloom.  The  head  and  shoulders  were 
closely  enveloped  in  a  hood  and  cape,  and  the  face  was) 
hidden  by  a  mask,  and  all  were  dripping  with  wet. 

"Leather face !"  murmured  the  Prince,  and  Clemence  van 
Rycke  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"There  is  a  light  in  the  window  above,"  whispered  the 
man  with  the  mask,  "and  a  shadow  has  crossed  behind  the 
windows  of  the  corridor.  Someone  is  astir  overhead — and 
the  civic  business  at  the  Town  House  is  drawing  to  an  end." 

"We  have  nearly  finished,"  murmured  the  Prince  in  reply. 
"And  I'll  come  away  at  once.  Is  the  street  clear?" 

"Quite — and  will  be  for  another  ten  minutes  till  the 
night-watchman  comes  round.  I  saw  him  just  now,  he  is 
very  drunk  and  might  make  trouble." 

"I  come,  friend,"  rejoined  the  Prince,  "and  as  soon  as 
may  be." 

The  hooded  head  disappeared  in  the  gloom;  Laurence 
closed  the  window  and  drew  the  curtains  together  again. 

"I  envy  that  man,"  he  said,  and  Clemence  murmured  a 
fervent:  "God  bless  him!" 


IV 


Then  the  Prince  turned  once  more  to  his  friends. 

"You  see,"  he  said  with  his  grave  smile,  "how  carefully 
my  dragon  guards  me.  There  is  evidently  no  time  for 
lengthy  explanations,  and  I  must  be  as  brief  as  I  can." 

He  now  opened  the  wallet  at  his  belt  and  took  out  from 
it  a  small  packet  of  papers. 

"I  am  going  to  entrust  these  papers  to  Messire  Laurence 
van  Rycke,"  he  said,  "they  contain  the  names  and  places 
of  abode  and  of  business  of  every  one  of  those  two  thou- 
sand men  who  have  actually  tendered  me  their  oath  of  alle- 


THE  REBELS  155 

giance,  and  have  sworn  to  give  me  unconditional  support. 
I  propose  that  Messire  van  Rycke  keep  these  lists,  because 
it  will  undoubtedly  be  his  father,  the  High-Bailiff,  who 
will  learn  sooner  than  any  one  else  in  the  town  the  day 
and  hour  of  the  Duke  of  Alva's  visit  to  Ghent.  As  soon 
as  this  is  known  to  him,  Messire  van  Rycke  will  then  go 
to  each  of  you,  seigniors,  and  give  you  each  a  list  of  five 
hundred  names,  at  the  head  of  which  will  be  noted  the  rally- 
ing point  where  these  men  will  have  to  meet  their  captain 
and  receive  their  arms.  You  in  your  turn  will  then  each  go 
and  beat  up  the  five  hundred  men  whose  names  will  have 
been  given  you,  and  order  them  to  go  to  their  respective 
rallying  points.  All  this  plan,"  added  the  Prince,  "has  been 
very  carefully  thought  out,  and  it  seems  to  me  simple  and 
easy  of  execution.  But  if  any  of  you,  seigniors,  can  think 
of  a  better  one,  I  am,  of  course,  always  ready  to  take  advice. 
You  know  your  own  city,  better  than  I  do — you  might 
devise  something  still  more  practical  than  what  I  propose." 

"Nay !"  interposed  one  of  the  men,  "meseems  that  noth- 
ing could  be  more  simple,  and  I  for  one  do  vote  uncondi- 
tionally for  the  acceptance  of  His  Highness'  plan." 

The  others  all  gave  their  assent — hastily  now,  for  again 
that  gentle  tapping  was  heard  against  the  window-pane, 
only  rather  more  firmly,  more  urgently  this  time.  But  no 
one  went  to  the  window  to  see  what  the  tapping  meant; 
obviously  the  faithful  watcher  outside  scented  some  still 
hidden  danger.  The  Prince  at  once  by  rising  gave  the  sig- 
nal that  the  conference  was  at  an  end.  As  he  did  so  he 
handed  the  packet  of  papers  to  Laurence  van  Rycke  who 
received  it  on  bended  knee. 

"It  is  a  treasure,  Messire,"  said  William  of  Orange 
earnestly,  "which  involves  the  lives  of  many  and  even, 


156  LEATHERFACE 

perhaps,  the  whole  existence  of  this  city.  Where  will  you 
keep  it?" 

It  was  Clemence  van  Rycke  who  replied : 

"This  room,"  she  said,  "is  mine  own  private  withdraw- 
ing-room;  that  bureau  there  hath  a  wonderful  lock  which 
defies  the  cleverest  thief;  it  contains  my  most  valuable 
jewels.  The  papers  will  be  safer  there  than  anywhere." 

"Let  me  see  you  lock  them  up  in  there,  mevrouw,"  re- 
joined the  Prince  graciously,  "I  entrust  them  to  you  and  to 
Laurence  with  utmost  confidence." 

Clemence  then  handed  a  key  to  her  son  and  he  locked 
the  packet  up  in  the  tall  bureau  of  carved  and  inlaid  ma- 
hogany and  satin-wood  which  stood  in  an  angle  of  the 
narrow  room  close  to  the  window  and  opposite  to  the  door. 

"I  am  meeting  some  friends  and  adherents  to-morrow," 
said  William  of  Orange  finally,  "at  the  house  of  Messire 
the  Procurator-General  whom  of  a  truth  God  will  bless 
for  his  loyalty — and  I  pray  you,  seigniors,  as  many  of 
you  as  can  do  so  to  meet  me  there  at  this  same  hour. 
But  should  we  not  meet  again,  do  you  understand  all 
that  you  have  to  do  ?" 

The  men  nodded  in  silence,  whereupon  the  Prince  took 
formal  leave  of  them  and  of  his  host  and  hostess.  He 
said  kind  and  grateful  words  to  Clemence  van  Rycke,  who, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  kissed  the  gracious  hand  which  was 
held  out  to  her.  She  then  escorted  her  noble  guest  out 
of  the  room  and  across  the  dining-hall,  the  others  following 
closely  behind.  All  were  treading  as  noiselessly  as  they 
could.  The  door  which  gave  from  the  dining-room  on 
the  hall  and  staircase  beyond  was  wide  open :  the  room  itself 
was  in  absolute  darkness,  and  only  a  tiny  light  flickered  in 
the  hall,  which  made  the  shadows  round  corners  and  in 
recesses  appear  all  the  more  dense. 


THE  REBELS  157 

"Will  your  Highness  grope  your  way  to  the  front  door," 
whispered  Clemence  van  Rycke,  "or  shall  my  son  bring 
a  lanthorn  to  guide  you?" 

"No,  no,"  said  William  of  Orange  hurriedly,  "that  small 
light  yonder  is  quite  sufficient.  I  can  see  my  way,  and 
we  must  try  not  to  wake  your  hall-porter." 

"Oh!  nothing  will  rouse  him  save  a  very  severe  shak- 
ing, and  the  bolts  and  bars  have  been  left  undone,  as  my 
husband  will  be  coming  home  late  to-night." 

"And,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,"  quoth  the  Prince,  "my 
devoted  friend  Leather  face  is  waiting  for  me  outside  to 
see  me  safely  to  my  lodgings.  He  is  always  mistrustful  of 
hidden  traps  or  hired  assassins  for  me.  Farewell,  seig- 
niors !"  he  added  lightly,  "remember  my  instructions  in  case 
we  do  not  meet  again." 

"But  to-morrow  ..."  interposed  Laurence  van  Rycke. 

"Aye!  to-morrow,"  said  William  of  Orange,  "at  this 
hour  at  the  house  of  Messire  Deynoot,  the  Procurator-Gen- 
eral :  those  of  you,  seigniors,  who  care  to  come  will  be 
welcome." 

"Not  one  of  us  would  care  to  stay  away,"  rejoined  Lau- 
rence with  earnest  conviction. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT 


LENORA,  thinking  that  Mevrouw  van  Rycke  was  still 
astir,  and  pining  for  motherly  comfort  and  companionship, 
had  crept  softly  down  the  stairs  candle  in  hand,  when  all 
of  a  sudden  she  paused  in  the  vast  hall.  Everything  was 
so  still  and  so  weird  that  any  noise,  even  that  of  a  mouse 
skimming  over  a  carpet,  would  have  made  itself  felt  in  the 
absolute  silence  which  lay  over  the  house,  and  Lenora's  ear 
had  most  certainly  heard — or  rather  felt,  a  noise — the 
sound  of  people  moving  and  speaking  somewhere,  not  very 
far  from  where  she  stood  .  .  .  listening  .  .  .  every  sense 
on  the  alert. 

With  a  sudden  instinct,  half  of  fear  and  half  of  caution, 
she  blew  out  the  candle  and  then  groped  her  way,  with 
hands  outstretched,  hardly  daring  to  breathe.  The  tiny, 
flickering  light  which  came  from  an  iron  lamp  fixed  to  a 
bracket  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  made  the  hall  seem  yet  more 
vast  and  strange;  but  one  small,  elvish  ray  caught  the 
polished  brass  handle  of  the  dining-room  door,  and  this 
glimmer  of  metal  seemed  to  attract  Lenora  toward  it.  After 
awhile  her  eyes  became  a  little  more  accustomed  to  the 
gloom,  she  tip-toed  up  to  that  door-handle  which  so  at- 
tracted her,  and  placing  both  her  hands  upon  it,  she 
crouched  there — beside  the  door — listening. 

In  effect  there  were  people  moving  and  talking  not  far 

158 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  159 

from  where  she  crouched — no  doubt  that  they  were  in  the 
small  withdrawing-room  beyond,  and  that  the  door  of 
communication  between  the  two  rooms  was  open.  Lenora 
— motionless,  palpitating,  her  heart  beating  so  that  it  nearly 
choked  her,  felt  that  all  her  faculties  must  now  be  merged 
into  those  of  hearing,  and,  if  possible,  seeing  what  was 
going  on  in  this  house,  and  at  this  hour  of  the  night  when 
the  High-Bailiff  was  from  home. 

Whether  any  thought  of  conspiracy  or  of  State  secrets 
had  at  this  time  entered  her  head  it  were  impossible  to 
say,  whether  she  thought  of  Ramon's  murderer  or  of  her 
oath  to  her  father  just  then,  who  can  tell?  Certainly  not 
the  girl  herself — she  only  listened — listened  with  all  her 
might,  and  anon  she  heard  the  scraping  of  a  chair  against 
the  tiled  floor,  then  the  iron  rings  of  a  curtain  sliding  along 
the  rod,  finally  the  whistling  sound  of  a  gust  of  wind  rush- 
ing through  an  open  window.  This  moment  she  chose  as 
her  opportunity.  She  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  very 
gently,  and  quite  noiselessly  it  responded  to  her  touch. 
Then  she  pushed  the  door  wide  open  and  waited — listening. 

The  door  into  the  withdrawing-room  was  wide  open  just 
as  she  had  conjectured,  the  wind  was  blowing  the  feeble 
light  about  which  flickered  in  that  room,  and  there  were 
men  in  there  who  moved  stealthily  and  spoke  in  whispers. 
Lenora  crept  forward — furtive  as  a  mouse.  The  darkness 
in  the  dining-hall  was  impenetrable,  and  she  in  her  house- 
dress  of  dark  woollen  stuff  made  no  noise  as  she  glided 
along,  keeping  well  within  the  gloom,  her  hands  stretched 
out  before  her  to  feel  the  objects  that  might  be  in  her  way. 

At  last  she  came  within  range  of  the  open  door  and  had 
a  view  of  the  little  room  beyond.  She  saw  the  table  in  the 
centre,  the  men  sitting  around  it,  and  Clemence  van  Rycke 
in  a  high -back  chair  at  its  further  end.  Just  now  they  all 


160  LEATHERFACE 

had  their  faces  turned  toward  the  window,  where  in  the 
open  casement  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man  were  dimly 
visible  to  Lenora  for  one  instant  and  then  disappeared. 

After  that  she  heard  the  men  talking  together  and  heard 
what  they  said:  she  saw  that  one  man  appeared  to  be  the 
recipient  of  great  marks  of  respect,  and  that  the  others 
called  him  "Your  Highness."  She  was  now  listening  as  if 
her  very  life  depended  on  what  she  heard — crouching  in 
the  angle  of  the  dining-room  as  closely  as  her  unwieldy 
farthingale  would  allow.  She  heard  the  man  whom  the 
others  called  "Your  Highness,"  and  who  could  be  none 
other  than  the  Prince  of  Orange,  explain  to  the  others  a 
plan  for  massing  together  two  thousand  men  in  connection 
with  a  forthcoming  visit  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  to  Ghent,  she 
heard  the  word  "Leatherface"  and  a  great  deal  about  a 
packet  of  papers.  She  heard  the  Prince  speak  about  a  meet- 
ing to-morrow  in  the  house  of  the  Procurator-General,  and 
finally  she  saw  Laurence  van  Rycke  take  a  packet  of  papers 
from  the  Prince's  hand  and  lock  it  up  in  the  bureau  that 
stood  close  to  the  window. 

Indeed  she  could  not  for  a  moment  be  in  doubt  as  to  the 
meaning  of  what  she  saw  and  heard. 

Here  was  a  living  proof  of  that  treachery,  that  under- 
hand conspiracy  of  which  her  father  had  so  often  spoken  to 
her  of  late!  Here  were  these  Netherlanders,  living  under 
the  beneficent  and  just  laws  of  their  Sovereign  Lord  and 
Master  King  Philip  of  Spain — the  man  who  in  every  born 
Spaniard's  eyes  was  greater,  nobler,  more  just  and  more 
merciful  than  any  other  monarch  alive,  who  next  to  His 
Holiness  himself  was  surely  anointed  by  God  Himself  and 
placed  upon  the  mightiest  throne  on  earth  so  that  he  might 
administer  God's  will  upon  all  his  subjects — and  here  were 
these  traitors  plotting  and  planning  against  the  Government 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  161 

of  that  high  and  noble  monarch,  plotting  against  his  repre- 
sentative, the  Lieutenant-Governor  whom  he  had  himself 
put  in  authority  over  them. 

To  a  girl  born  and  bred  in  the  atmosphere  of  quasi- 
worship  which  surrounded  Philip's  throne,  the  revolt  of 
these  Netherlanders  was  the  most  heinous  outrage  any  peo- 
ple could  commit.  She  understood  now  the  hatred  and 
loathing  which  her  father  had  for  them — she  hated  them 
too,  since  one  of  these  vile  conspirators  had  foully  mur- 
dered her  cousin  Ramon  in  the  dark. 

"Leatherf  ace !" — the  man  in  the  room  below  whom  the 
others  called  "Your  Highness"  spoke  of  Leatherface  as 
his  friend! 

A  Prince  consorting  with  a  hired  assassin!  and  Lenora 
felt  that  her  whole  soul  was  filled  with  loathing  for  all 
these  people.  Was  not  the  man  who  had  killed  Ramon — 
foully,  surreptitiously  and  in  the  dark — was  he  not  even 
now  just  outside  this  very  house — the  house  which  was 
to  be  her  home  for  life — waiting  mayhap  for  some  other 
unsuspecting  Spanish  officer  whom  he  could  murder  in 
the  same  cowardly  and  treacherous  way? — and  were  not 
all  these  people  in  that  room  yonder,  execrable  assassins 
too? — had  she  not  heard  them  speaking  of  armed  con- 
spirators?— and  could  she  not  see  even  now  in  her  mind's 
eye  the  unsuspecting  Duke  of  Alva  falling  into  their  abom- 
inable trap? 

But  horror-struck  as  she  was,  she  never  stirred.  Truth 
to  tell,  a  sudden  fear  held  her  now — the  fear  that  she  might 
be  detected  ere  she  had  done  her  best  to  save  the  Duke 
from  this  infamous  plot.  What  she  would  do  presently, 
she  did  not  know  as  yet — for  the  moment  all  that  she 
needed  was  safety  from  discovery  and  the  privacy  of  her 
own  room  where  she  could  pray  and  think. 


162  LEATHERFACE 

After  Laurence  had  locked  the  papers  in  the  bureau  it 
was  obvious  that  the  meeting  was  at  an  end.  She  had 
only  just  time  to  flit  like  a  dark  ghost  through  the  dining- 
hall  and  to  reach  the  stairs,  before  she  heard  unmistakable 
signs  that  the  Prince  and  his  friends  were  taking  leave  of 
their  host  and  hostess.  Gathering  her  wide  gown  together 
in  her  hands,  she  crept  up  the  stairs  as  fast  as  she  could. 
Fortunately  she  was  well  out  of  the  range  of  the  small  light 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  before  the  five  men  and  Clemence 
van  Rycke  came  out  into  the  hall.  She  heard  their  few 
words  of  farewell  and  heard  the  Prince  arranging  for  the 
meeting  the  next  evening  at  the  house  of  Messire  Deynoot. 

After  that  she  felt  that  further  delay  would  inevitably 
spell  detection.  Even  now  someone  must  have  opened  the 
front  door,  for  a  gust  of  wind  and  heavy  rain  driving  into 
the  house  told  the  listener  quite  clearly  that  the  Prince  and 
his  friends  were  leaving  the  house :  anon  Clemence  and 
Laurence  would  be  going  up  to  their  own  apartments. 

As  swiftly,  as  furtively  as  a  mouse,  Lenora  made  her 
way  up  the  stairs:  and  now  there  she  sat  once  more  in 
the  vast  bedchamber,  quivering  with  excitement  and  with 
horror,  listening  for  footsteps  outside  her  door.  She  heard 
Clemence  van  Rycke's  shuffling  footsteps  passing  down  the 
corridor,  and  Laurence's  more  firm  ones  following  closely 
in  their  wake :  a  few  whispered  words  were  spoken  by 
mother  and  son,  then  doors  were  closed  and  all  was  still 
once  more. 


II 


The  fire  had  burnt  low,  only  the  last  dying  embers  of  the 
charred  pine  logs  threw  a  wide  glowing  band  across  the 
centre  of  the  room.  Lenora  sitting  by  the  fire  had  scarcely 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  163 

moved  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  even  more.  Anon  she 
heard  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  front  door. 

It  was  the  High-Bailiff  returning  home — not  knowing, 
of  a  truth,  that  his  house  had  just  been  used  as  a  meeting- 
place  for  conspirators.  The  hall-porter  slept  between  two 
doors  in  the  outer  lobby.  Lenora  heard  him  scrambling  out 
of  bed,  and  the  High-Bailiff's  voice  bidding  him  close  every- 
thing up  for  the  night.  Then  came  the  pushing  home  of 
bars  and  bolts  and  the  rattle  of  chains,  and  finally  the  sound 
of  the  High-Bailiff's  heavy  footsteps  across  the  hall  and  up 
the  stairs. 

After  that  silence  once  more. 

Lenora,  however,  still  sat  on  for  awhile  staring  into  the 
glow.  Vaguely  she  wondered  if  Mark  would  be  staying 
out  all  night,  or  whether  he  had  been  home  all  along,  know- 
ing perhaps,  and  perhaps  not  caring  about,  what  was  going 
on  in  his  father's  house;  keeping  aloof  from  it  all:  or  like 
Laurence,  up  to  his  neck  in  all  this  treachery  and  abomi- 
nable rebellion! 

Another  quarter-of-an-hour  went  by:  the  clock  of  St. 
Bavon  had  chimed  the  half  after  eleven,  and  now  the 
quarter  before  midnight.  Lenora  felt  that  at  last  she  might 
slip  downstairs  with  safety. 

Quickly  now  she  took  off  her  stuff  gown  and  heavy  far- 
thingale which  had  so  impeded  her  movements  awhile  ago, 
and  groped  in  the  press  for  a  clinging  robe  which  would 
envelop  her  closely  and  glide  noiselessly  upon  the  tiled 
floors. 

There  is  absolutely  no  doubt  that  all  through  this  time 
Lenora  acted  almost  unconsciously.  She  never  for  one 
moment  paused  to  think  :  she  was  impelled  by  a  force  which 
she  herself  could  not  have  defined — a  force  which  can  best 
be  described  as  a  blind  instinct.  Obedience !  She  had  been 


164  LEATHERFACE 

born  and  bred  in  obedience  and  a  sense  of  sacred  duty  to 
her  King  as  Sovereign  Lord,  to  her  faith  and  to  her  father. 

In  the  convent  at  Segovia  she  had  learned  the  lesson  of 
obedience  so  absolutely  that  it  never  entered  her  mind  to 
question  the  decrees  of  those  three  all-potent  arbiters  of  her 
destiny.  And  when — as  now — the  hour  came  when  the 
most  sacred  oath  she  had  ever  spoken  had  to  be  fulfilled, 
she  would  have  thought  it  a  deadly  sin  to  search  her  own 
heart,  to  study  her  feelings,  to  argue  with  herself  about  it. 
She  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  arguing  with  God. 

On  Ramon's  death-bed  she  had  sworn  to  her  father  that 
she  would  act  and  work  for  her  country  and  for  her  King 
in  the  way  that  her  father  would  direct. 

The  time  had  come,  and  she  did  what  she  believed  to  be 
her  duty  without  question  and  without  false  shame. 

She  knew  that  the  knowledge  which  she  already  possessed 
was  of  paramount  importance  to  the  Government:  the 
Prince  of  Orange  was  in  Ghent — who  but  he  would  be 
called  "your  Highness"? — and  moving  about  among  his 
friends  surreptitiously  and  at  dead  of  night?  Who  but 
he  would  speak  of  the  mysterious  Leatherface  as  being  on 
the  watch  for  him?  The  Prince  of  Orange  was  in  Ghent 
and  was  conspiring  against  the  State.  There  had  been  talk 
of  the  Duke  of  Alva's  visit  to  Ghent  and  of  two  thousand 
men  being  secretly  armed.  What  other  purpose  save  that 
of  murder  and  bloodshed  could  be  served  by  such  secret 
plottings  and  the  levying  of  troops  in  this  illegal  manner? 
The  Prince  of  Orange  was  in  Ghent  and  would  on  the  mor- 
row continue  his  underhand  and  treasonable  machinations 
in  the  house  of  Messire  Deynoot,  Procurator-General  of 
Ghent. 

That  was  the  extent  of  Lenora's  knowledge,  and  what 
could  she  do  with  such  a  secret  in  her  possession — she,  a 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  165 

helpless  girl,  a  stranger  in  the  midst  of  all  these  enemies 
of  her  people  and  of  her  race?  Could  she,  having  gleaned 
so  much  information,  quietly  go  to  bed  and  sleep  and  let 
events  shape  their  course? — and  detach  herself,  as  it  were, 
from  the  destinies  of  her  own  country  which  her  father  had 
in  a  measure  entrusted  to  her  stewardship?  Could  she 
above  all  be  false  to  her  oath  at  the  very  moment  when  God 
gave  her  an  opportunity  of  fulfilling  it  and  of  working  for 
her  country  and  her  King  in  a  manner  which  was  given 
to  very  few  women  to  do?  Indeed  she  did  not  pause  to 
think.  Any  thought  save  that  of  obedience  would  be  trea- 
son to  the  King  and  sinful  before  God.  The  hour  for 
thought  would  come  later,  and  with  it  mayhap  regret. 
Then  so  be  it.  Whatever  suffering  she  would  have  to 
endure  in  the  future,  in  her  sentiment  and  in  her  feelings, 
she  was  ready  to  accept  unquestioningly,  just  as  she  was 
prepared  to  fulfil  her  duty  unquestioningly  now.  She  knew 
a  good  deal,  but  surely  not  enough.  She  had  seen  Laurence 
van  Rycke  lock  up  a  packet  of  papers  in  the  bureau,  and 
she  had  in  her  possession  tied  with  a  ribbon  around  her 
neck,  the  precious  pass-key  which  her  father  had  given  her 
on  the  very  morning  when  he  told  her  how  Ramon  had 
come  by  his  death — the  curiously- fashioned  piece  of  steel 
made  by  the  metal-worker  of  Toledo — who  had  been  put 
out  of  the  way,  because  his  skill  had  made  him  dangerous — 
and  which  would  turn  any  lock  or  open  any  secret  drawer. 
She  had  no  light  now  and  did  not  know  how  to  use  the 
tinder,  but  in  the  wall  of  the  corridor  outside  her  door 
there  was  a  little  niche  wherein  stood  a  statue  of  the  Vir- 
gin, and  in  front  of  the  statute  a  tiny  light  was  kept  burn- 
ing day  and  night:  this  would  do  in  lieu  of  a  candle. 
She  would  take  it,  she  thought,  and  carry  it  into  the  with- 


166  LEATHERFACE 

drawing-room  with  her:  it  would  help  to  guide  her  to  the 
bureau  where  the  papers  were. 

Yes!  she  was  quite  prepared  for  what  she  had  to  do, 
and  there  was  no  reason  to  wait  any  longer.  And  yet  for 
some  unaccountable  reason  she  suddenly  felt  strangely 
inert :  there  were  still  a  few  dying  embers  in  the  grate,  and 
she  could  see  quite  distinctly  the  high-backed  chair  in 
which  she  had  sat  last  night,  and  the  low  one  wherein 
Mark  had  half  sat,  half  kneeled  close  beside  her:  the 
memory  of  that  brief  interview  which  she  had  had  with 
him  came  upon  her  with  a  rush.  It  had  been  the  only  inter- 
view between  them  since  the  blessing  of  the  Church  had 
made  them  man  and  wife.  It  had  ended  disastrously  it  is 
true.  Her  words:  "I  hate  you!"  had  been  cruel  and 
untrue,  and  overwhelming  regret  suddenly  held  her  in  its 
grip  once  again — as  it  had  done  all  the  day. 

Closing  her  eyes  for  a  moment — for  they  felt  hot  and 
heavy — she  could  almost  believe  that  Mark  was  still  there 
— his  merry  grey  eyes  looking  deeply  earnest,  trying  to 
read  her  innermost  thoughts.  His  personality — so  strange, 
so  baffling  even — seemed  still  to  linger  in  this  dimly-lighted 
room,  and  she  almost  could  hear  his  voice — rugged,  yet  at 
times  so  sweet  and  tender— echoing  softly  along  the 
rafters. 

And  all  of  a  sudden  she  realised  the  full  horror  of  what 
she  was  doing — of  what  she  must  do  now  or  else  become 
false  and  perjured — a  traitor  to  her  race  and  to  her  King. 
No  longer  was  she  a  blind  and  unconscious  tool  of  Fate — 
she  was  she  herself — a  woman  who  lived  and  thought  and 
suffered :  and  before  her  at  this  moment  there  was  nothing 
but  an  interminable  vista  of  sorrow  and  suffering  and 
regret. 

Whether  duty  ruled  her  or  sentiment,  she — the  innocent 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  167 

handmaid  of  Fate — could  reap  nothing  but  remorse  in 
the  future;  her  heart,  her  very  youth,  must  inevitably  be 
crushed  between  those  two  potent  factors  which  were 
struggling  even  now  for  mastery  over  her  soul. 

Indeed  was  there  ever  a  woman — a  mere  girl — con- 
fronted with  so  appalling,  so  intricate  a  puzzle?  The  lives 
of  men  were  in  her  hands — the  Prince  of  Orange,  the 
High-Bailiff,  Mark,  Laurence,  Clemence  on  the  one  side, 
on  the  other  the  Duke  of  Alva,  her  own  father,  her  kin- 
dred, all  those  whom  she  had  clung  to  and  loved  through- 
out her  life. 

And  knowing  that  she  never  could  solve  such  an  awful 
problem  by  herself  Lenora  fell  on  her  knees  and  prayed : 
she  prayed  with  all  the  fervour,  but  also  with  all  the  sim- 
plicity of  primitive  faith — the  faith  that  is  willing  and 
eager  to  leave  everything  in  God's  hands,  to  trust  to 
guidance  and  help  from  above  when  life  has  become  a 
hopeless  and  inextricable  tangle — the  faith  which  hath  for 
its  principle  loyalty  and  obedience  and  which  accepts  suf- 
fering in  its  cause,  and  glories  in  it  like  in  a  martyr's 
crown. 


in 


After  a  few  minutes  Lenora  felt  more  calm.  Her  deep 
and  fervent  religious  sentiment  had  risen  triumphant  over 
every  doubt.  While  she  prayed  so  earnestly,  so  unques- 
tioningly,  it  had  been  made  clear  to  her  that  the  issue  of 
the  mighty  problem  which  was  putting  her  very  soul  on 
the  rack  must  remain  in  mightier  hands  than  hers.  She 
could  not  be  the  arbiter  of  men's  lives  and  of  the  destinies 
of  the  State;  all  that  she  could  do  was  to  obey  her  father 
and  fulfil  her  oath;  beyond  that,  God  must  decide;  He 


168  LEATHERFACE 

had  shown  her  the  way  how  to  obtain  the  knowledge 
which  she  now  possessed,  and  since  her  father  was  now 
back  in  Brussels,  she  must  find  a  means  of  placing  that 
knowledge  in  his  hands.  Her  father  of  a  surety  was  kind 
and  just  and  God  would  Himself  punish  whom  He  willed. 

With  this  calmer  state  of  mind  her  resolution  became 
more  firm.  She  felt  the  pass-key  safely  in  her  bosom, 
then  stealthily  she  slipped  out  of  her  room:  the  tiny  light 
was  flickering  dimly  at  the  foot  of  the  Virgin's  statue; 
Lenora  lifted  it  carefully  and  with  it  in  her  hand  pre- 
pared to  go  downstairs. 

Scarce  a  sound  broke  the  silence  of  the  night:  only  the 
patter  of  the  rain  against  the  leaded  panes  of  the  windows 
and  an  occasional  gust  of  wind  that  came  roaring  down 
the  huge  chimneys  and  shook  the  frames  of  windows 
and  doors.  Before  descending  the  stairs  Lenora  paused 
once  more  to  listen.  Down  the  corridor  she  could  hear 
Clemence  van  Rycke  in  her  bedchamber  still  moving  about, 
and  Laurence's  footstep  on  the  tiled  floor  of  his  room. 

And  then  the  girl — shading  the  tiny  light  with  her  hand 
— began  to  descend. 

She  paused  for  a  moment  upon  the  landing  and  peeped 
into  the  vast  hall  below.  It  was  fortunate  that  she  had  the 
tiny  light,  as  the  small  lamp  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  had 
since  been  extinguished;  but  the  little  wick  she  held  only 
threw  out  a  faint  glimmer  a  yard  or  two  in  front  of  her, 
and  beyond  this  small  circle  there  was  nothing  but  impene- 
trable darkness. 

The  house  was  very  still,  and  Lenora  was  absolutely 
without  fear.  From  the  church  towers  of  the  city,  both 
near  and  far,  there  came  the  sound  of  bells  striking  the 
midnight  hour.  She  waited  till  the  last  echo  of  the  chimes 
had  died  away,  then  she  continued  her  way  down. 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  169 


IV 


Lenora  now  entered  the  dining-hall  and  carefully  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  Light  in  hand  she  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  very  angle  of  the  room  from  whence  she  had  watched 
the  plotters  an  hour  ago.  Nothing  had  been  deranged. 

Then  she  went  into  the  withdrawing-room,  and  placed 
the  light  upon  the  centre  table.  She  looked  around  her 
mutely  challenging  the  dumb  objects — the  chairs  that  stood 
about  in  disorder,  the  curtains  which  were  not  closely 
drawn,  the  bureau  that  was  in  the  corner — to  tell  her  all  that 
she  had  failed  to  hear.  In  this  spot  a  vile  conspiracy  had 
been  hatched  against  the  Duke  of  Alva — two  thousand  men 
were  implicated  in  it — but  in  what  way  it  threatened  the 
Duke's  life  she  did  not  know — nor  yet  who  were  all  these 
men  who  had  sat  around  this  table  and  hatched  treason 
against  the  King  and  State. 

The  tiny  wick  only  shed  a  very  feeble  glimmer  of  light 
on  the  top  of  the  table :  it  made  the  shadows  on  the  ceiling 
dance  a  weird  rigadoon  and  grow  to  fantastic  proportions. 
But  Lenora's  eyes  were  growing  well-accustomed  to  the 
gloom.  Quickly  now  she  drew  the  pass-key  from  between 
the  folds  of  her  kerchief  and  went  up  to  the  bureau.  The 
ribbon  round  her  neck  was  in  the  way  so  she  took  it  off; 
with  trembling,  unerring  fingers  she  groped  for  the  lock 
and  having  found  it  she  inserted  the  pass-key  into  it.  After 
a  little  adjustment,  a  little  tugging  and  pulling,  she  found 
that  the  lock  yielded  quite  smoothly  to  the  pressure.  The 
flap  came  down  and  displayed  the  interior  of  the  bureau, 
consisting  of  a  number  of  wide  pigeon-holes,  in  each  of 
which  there  was  a  small  iron  box  such  as  the  rich  matrons 
of  Flanders  used  for  putting  away  their  pearls  and  other 


170  LEATHERFACE 

pieces  of  jewellery.  On  the  top  of  one  of  these  boxes 
there  was  a  packet  of  papers,  tied  round  with  a  piece  of 
orange-coloured  ribbon.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation 
Lenora  took  it.  She  unfolded  one  of  the  papers  and  laid 
it  out  flat  upon  the  table,  smoothing  it  out  with  her  hand. 
She  drew  the  light  a  little  nearer  and  examined  the  writing 
carefully:  it  was  just  a  list  of  names — fifty  in  all — with 
places  of  abode  all  set  out  in  a  double  column,  and  at  the 
bottom  was  written  in  a  bold  hand: 

•  "All  the  above  to  Afsemble  without  any  delay  in  the 
Barn  which  is  fituated  in  the  North-Weft  angle  of  the 
Cemetery  at  the  back  of  the  Chapel  of  St.  Jan  ten  Dullen." 

Having  satisfied  herself  that  the  other  papers  in  the 
packet  also  contained  lists  of  names  and  brief  orders  as 
to  place  of  assembly,  she  tied  them  all  up  together  again 
with  the  orange-coloured  ribbon.  Then  she  closed  the 
bureau,  turned  the  pass-key  in  the  lock  and  slipped  it, 
together  with  the  packet,  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown. 

Then  she  turned  to  go. 


Light  in  hand  she  went  tip-toeing  across  the  dining- 
room  ;  but  close  to  the  threshold  she  paused.  She  had  dis- 
tinctly heard  a  furtive  footstep  in  the  hall.  At  once  she 
extinguished  the  light.  Then  she  waited.  Her  thoughts 
had  flown  to  Laurence  van  Rycke.  Perhaps  he  felt  anxious 
about  the  papers,  and  was  coming  down  in  order  to  transfer 
them  to  some  other  place  of  safety.  The  supposition  was 
terrifying.  Lenora  felt  as  if  an  icy  hand  had  suddenly 
gripped  her  heart  and  was  squeezing  her  very  life  out  of 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  171 

it.  In  this  deathlike  agony  a  few  seconds  went  by — indeed 
they  seemed  to  the  unfortunate  girl  like  an  eternity  of  tor- 
ment. She  had  slipped  close  to  the  wall  right  against  the 
door,  so  that  the  moment  it  was  opened  from  the  outside, 
and  someone  entered  the  room,  she  could  contrive  to  slip 
out.  All  might  yet  be  well,  if  whoever  entered  did  not 
happen  to  carry  a  light. 

Then  suddenly  she  heard  the  steps  again,  and  this  time 
they  approached  the  dining-room  door.  Lenora's  heart 
almost  ceased  to  beat:  the  next  moment  the  door  was 
opened  and  someone  stood  upon  the  threshold — just  for  a 
second  or  two  .  .  .  without  moving,  whilst  Lenora  with 
senses  as  alert  as  those  of  some  feline  creature  in  defence 
of  its  life — waited  and  watched  for  her  opportunity. 

But  that  opportunity  never  came,  for  the  newcomer— 
whoever  he  was — suddenly  stepped  into  the  room  and  im- 
mediately closed  the  door  behind  him  and  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock.  Lenora  was  a  prisoner,  at  the  mercy  of  a  man 
whose  secrets  she  had  stolen,  and  whose  life  hung  upon 
all  that  she  had  seen  and  heard  this  night. 

The  intruder  now  groped  his  way  across  the  room  and 
anon  Lenora  heard  him  first  draw  aside  the  curtains  from 
before  the  window,  and  then  proceed  to  open  two  of  the 
casements.  The  window  gave  on  the  Nieuwstraate,  almost 
opposite  the  tavern  of  the  "Three  Weavers,"  at  the  entrance 
of  which  there  hung  an  iron  street-lamp.  The  light  of 
this  came  slanting  in  through  the  open  casements  and 
Lenora  suddenly  saw  that  it  was  Mark  who  was  standing 
there. 

Even  at  this  instant  he  turned  and  faced  her.  He  showed 
no  sign  however  of  surprise,  but  exclaimed  quite  pleas- 
antly: "By  the  stars,  Madonna!  and  who  would  have 
thought  of  meeting  you  here?" 


172  LEATHERFACE 

The  tension  on  Lenora's  nerves  had  been  so  acute  that 
her  self-control  almost  gave  way  with  the  intensity  of  her 
relief  when  she  recognised  Mark  and  heard  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  Her  hands  began  to  shake  so  violently  that  the 
tiny  lamp  nearly  dropped  out  of  them. 

She  had  been  so  startled  that  she  could  not  as  yet  either 
speak  or  move,  but  just  stood  there  close  to  the  wall,  like  a 
pale,  slim  ghost  only  faintly  illumined  by  the  slanting  light 
of  the  street-lamp,  her  soft,  white  gown  clinging  round  her 
trembling  limbs.  Her  face,  bosom  and  arms  were  scarce 
less  white  than  her  gown,  and  in  the  dim,  mysterious  light 
her  luminous,  dark  eyes  shone  with  a  glow  of  excitement 
still  vaguely  tinged  with  dread. 

He  thought  that  never  in  life  had  he  seen  anything  quite 
so  beautiful,  so  pure,  so  desirable,  and  yet  so  pathetic  as 
this  young  girl,  whom  but  forty  hours  ago  he  had  sworn 
to  love,  to  protect  and  to  cherish.  Just  now  she  looked 
sadly  helpless,  despite  the  fact  that  gradually  a  little  air  of 
haughtiness  replaced  her  first  look  of  fear. 

"Madonna,"  he  said  gently,  "are  you  indeed  yourself, 
or  are  you  your  own  wraith?  If  not,  why  are  you  wander- 
ing about  alone  at  this  hour  of  the  night?" 

"I  came  to  fetch  my  prayer-book,"  she  said,  trying  to 
speak  lightly  and  with  a  steady  voice.  "I  thought  that  I 
had  left  it  here  to-day  and  missed  it  when  I  went  to  rest." 

"You  found  the  book,  I  hope,"  he  said,  without  the  slight- 
est trace  of  irony. 

"No,"  she  replied  coldly.  "Inez  must  have  put  it  away. 
Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  unlock  that  door." 

"I  will  with  pleasure,  Madonna.  I  locked  it  when  I  came 
in,  because  I  didn't  want  old  Pierre  to  come  shuffling  in 
after  me,  as  he  so  often  does  when  I  go  late  to  bed.  But," 
he  added,  putting  out  his  hand,  "may  I  take  this  lamp  from 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  173 

you.  Your  hand  does  not  appear  to  be  oversteady  and  if 
the  oil  were  to  drip  it  would  spoil  your  gown." 

"The  draught  blew  it  out,"  she  retorted,  "and  I  would 
be  glad  if  you  would  relight  it.  I  am  going  back  to  my 
room." 

"Precisely,"  he  rejoined  dryly  as  he  took  the  lamp  from 
her  and  put  it  on  the  table,  "and  with  your  leave  I  would 
escort  you  thither." 

"I  thank  you,"  she  rejoined  coldly,  "I  can  find  my  way 
alone." 

"As  you  please,"  he  said  with  perfect  indifference. 

Now  that  her  eyes  were  more  accustomed  to  the  semi- 
darkness  she  could  see  him  more  distinctly,  and  she  stared 
at  him  in  amazement.  His  appearance  was  certainly  very 
different  to  what  it  habitually  was — for  he  usually  dressed 
himself  with  great  care:  but  now  he  had  on  dark  clothes, 
made  of  thick  woollen  stuff,  which  clung  closely  to  his  tall 
figure :  he  wore  no  ruff,  and  had  on  very  high  boots  which 
reached  high  above  his  knees.  Both  his  clothes  and  boots 
were  bespattered  with  mud,  and  strangely  enough  looked 
also  wet  through.  Somehow  the  appearance  appeared  un- 
real. It  was  Mark — and  yet  it  was  not.  His  face,  too, 
looked  flushed,  and  the  lines  round  his  eyes  were  more 
deeply  marked  than  they  had  ever  seemed  to  be  before. 

The  recollection  of  all  the  abominable  gossip  retailed 
about  him  by  Inez  and  others  took  possession  of  her  mind. 
She  had  been  told  by  all  and  sundry  that  Mark  van  Rycke 
had  spent  most  of  his  day  at  the  "Three  Weavers,"  and 
now  the  flush  on  his  face,  the  curious  dilation  of  the  pupils 
of  his  eyes,  seemed  to  bear  mute  testimony  to  all  that  she 
had  heard. 

Here,  then,  she  already  saw  the  hand  of  God  guiding 
her  future — and  showing  her  the  small  glimmer  of  com- 


174  LEATHERFACE 

'fort  which  He  vouchsafed  her  in  the  midst  of  her  per- 
plexities. Life  in  this  house  and  with  this  man — who  cared 
less  than  nothing  for  her — would  anyhow  be  intolerable — 
then  obviously  the  way  was  clear  for  her  to  go  back  to  her 
father.  She  wished  no  harm  to  these  people — none  to  this 
poor,  drunken  wretch,  who  probably  had  no  thought  of 
rebellion  or  of  heresy,  none  to  Laurence,  who  loved  her,  or 
to  Clemence,  who  had  been  kind  to  her.  But  she  despised 
them — aye!  and  loathed  them,  and  was  grateful  to  God 
for  allowing  her  to  keep  her  promise  to  her  father  within 
the  first  few  hours  of  her  married  life. 

How  terrible  would  have  been  the  long  and  weary  watch- 
ing! the  irresolution,  the  temptation,  mayhap,  to  be  false 
to  her  oath  through  sheer  indolence  or  superacute  senti- 
ment! 

So  now  all  that  she  had  to  do  was  to  go  straight  back 
to  her  father,  tell  him  all  that  she  knew  and  then  go — go 
back  to  the  dear  old  convent  at  Segovia — having  done  more 
than  a  woman's  share  in  the  service  of  her  country — and 
then  to  rest  after  that — to  spend  her  life  in  peace  and  in 
prayer — away  from  all  political  intrigues — forgetting  that 
she  had  ever  been  young  and  felt  a  vague  yearning  for  hap- 
piness. 


VI 


Mark  had  made  no  sign  or  movement  while  Lenora  stood 
there  before  him,  gathering  her  strength  together  for  what 
she  felt  might  prove  a  struggle.  In  some  unaccountable 
way  she  felt  a  little  afraid  of  him — not  physically  of  course, 
but,  despite  the  fact  that  she  had  so  impulsively  judged  him 
just  now — afraid  of  that  searching  glance  of  his  which 
seemed  to  lay  her  innermost  thoughts  like  an  open  book 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  175 

before  his  eyes.  She  put  this  strange  timidity  of  hers  down 
to  the  knowledge  that  he  had  certain  lawful  rights  over  her 
as  her  lord  and  husband  and  that  she  would  have  to  obtain 
his  consent  before  she  could  think  of  going  to  Brussels  on 
the  morrow. 

"Messire,"  she  said  abruptly,  "during  this  day  which 
you  have  seen  fit  to  spend  among  your  habitual  boon  com- 
panions, making  merry  no  doubt,  I  have  been  a  great  deal 
alone.  Solitude  begets  sober  reason — and  I  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  life  under  present  conditions  would  be 
a  perpetual  martyrdom  to  me." 

She  paused  and  he  rejoined  quietly:  "I  don't  think  I 
quite  understand,  Madonna.  Under  what  conditions  would 
your  life  become  a  martyrdom?" 

"Under  those  of  a  neglected  wife,  Messire,"  she  said. 
"I  have  no  mind  to  sit  at  home — an  object  of  suspicion  to 
your  kinsfolk  and  of  derision  to  your  servants,  while  the 
whole  town  is  alive  with  the  gossip  that  Messire  Mark  van 
Rycke  spent  the  first  day  of  his  marriage  in  the  taverns  of 
Ghent  and  left  his  bride  to  pine  in  solitude." 

"But  methought,  Madonna,"  he  retorted,  "that  it  was 
solitude  that  you  craved  for.  Both  last  night  and  even  a 
moment  ago  you  told  me  very  plainly  that  you  had  no 
desire  for  my  company." 

"Last  night  I  was  overwrought  and  would  have  made 
amends  to  you  for  my  thoughtlessness  at  once,  only  that 
you  left  me  incontinently  without  a  further  word.  As  for 
now,  Messire,  surely  you  cannot  wonder  that  I  have  no 
mind  for  your  society  after  a  day's  carouse  has  clouded 
your  brain  and  made  your  glance  unsteady." 

She  thought  herself  very  brave  in  saying  this,  and  more 
than  half  expected  an  angry  retort  from  him.  Instead  of 
which  he  suddenly  threw  back  his  head  and  burst  into  an 


176  LEATHERFACE 

immoderate  and  merry  laughter.  She  gazed  at  him  horri- 
fied and  not  a  little  frightened — thinking  indeed  that  his 
brain  was  overclouded — but  he,  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered 
his  composure,  asked  her  with  grave  attempt  at  seriousness : 
"You  think  that  I  am  drunk,  Madonna?  Ye  gods!"  he 
exclaimed  not  without  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "hath  such 
a  farce  ever  been  enacted  before?" 

"A  farce  to  you  perhaps,"  she  said  earnestly,  "but  a 
tragedy  to  me.  I  have  been  rendered  wretched  and  un- 
happy, Messire,  and  this  despite  your  protestations  of 
chivalry.  I  did  not  seek  you,  Messire.  This  marriage  was 
forced  upon  me.  It  is  ungenerous  and  cowardly  to  make 
me  suffer  because  of  it." 

"Dastardly  and  abominable,"  he  assented  gravely.  "In- 
deed, Madonna,  you  do  me  far  too  much  honour  even 
to  deign  to  speak  with  me.  I  am  not  worthy  that  you 
should  waste  a  thought  on  me — but  since  you  have  been  so 
kind  thus  far,  will  you  extend  your  generosity  to  me  by 
allowing  me  to  give  you  my  most  solemn  word — to  swear 
to  you  if  need  be  that  I  am  not  the  drunken  wretch  whom 
evil  tongues  have  thus  described  to  you.  There,"  he  added 
more  lightly,  "will  you  not  deign  to  sit  here  a  moment? 
You  are  tired  and  overwrought;  let  me  get  you  a  cup  of 
wine,  and  see  if  some  less  strenuous  talk  will  chase  all 
those  black  thoughts  from  your  mind." 

He  took  her  hand  and  then  with  gentle  yet  forceful  pres- 
sure led  her  to  the  wide  hearth  and  made  her  sit  in  the  big 
chair  close  beside  it. 

"Alas !  there  are  not  even  embers  in  the  grate,"  he  said, 
"I  fear  me,  you  must  be  cold." 

From  somewhere  out  of  the  darkness — she  could  not  see 
from  where — he  brought  a  footstool  for  her  feet;  then  he 
pulled  a  low  chair  forward  for  himself  and  sat  down  at 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  177 

some  little  distance  from  her,  in  his  favourite  attitude,  with 
one  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  face  shaded  by  his  hand. 
She  remained  silent  for  a  moment  or  two,  for  she  suddenly 
felt  an  extraordinary  sense  of  well-being;  just  the  same  as 
she  had  felt  last  night,  and  once  or  twice  before  in  his  pres- 
ence. And  she  felt  deeply  sorry  for  him  too.  After  all, 
perhaps  he  had  no  more  desired  this  marriage  than  she 
had — and  no  doubt  the  furrows  on  his  face  came  from 
anxiety  and  care,  and  she  marvelled  what  it  was  that 
troubled  him. 

"There,"  he  asked  gaily,  "are  you  better  now,  Ma- 
donna ?" 

"Better,  I  thank  you,"  she  replied. 

"Then  shall  I  interpret  the  thoughts  which  were  coursing 
behind  that  smooth  brow  of  yours,  when  first  I  startled  you 
by  my  presence  here?" 

"If  you  will." 

He  waited  a  moment,  then  said  dryly:  "You  desired 
to  convey  to  me  your  wish  to  return  to  your  father.  ... 
Oh!  only  for  a  little  while,"  he  added  hastily,  seeing  that 
she  had  made  a  quick,  protesting  gesture,  "but  that  was  in 
your  mind,  was  it  not?" 

She  could  not  deny  it,  and  murmured :    "Yes." 

"Such  a  wish,  Madonna,"  he  rejoined,  gravely,  "is  as 
a  command  to  me.  In  the  late  morning  the  horses  will 
be  at  your  disposal.  I  will  have  the  honour  to  accompany 
you  to  Brussels." 

"You,  Messire !"  she  exclaimed,  "you  would  ..." 

"I  would  do  anything  to  further  your  wishes,  Madonna ; 
this  I  would  have  you  believe.  And  a  journey  to  Brussels 
is  such  a  small  matter.  ..." 

"As  you  say,"  she  murmured.  For  such  are  the  con- 
tradictions of  a  woman's  heart  that  all  of  a  sudden  she  did 


178  LEATHERFACE 

not  wish  to  go  away.  All  thoughts  of  rebellion  and  con- 
spiracies were  unaccountably  thrust  into  the  background 
of  her  mind,  and  ...  she  did  not  wish  to  go  away.  .  .  . 

"There  is  no  hurry,"  she  continued  timidly.  "I  would 
not  like  to  put  you  to  inconvenience." 

"Oh!"  he  rejoined  airily,  "there  is  no  inconvenience 
which  I  would  not  gladly  bear  in  order  to  gratify  your 
wish." 

"I  shall  have  to  pack  my  effects.  ..." 

"Jeanne  will  help  Inez,  and  a  few  things  are  easily 
packed.  Your  effects  shall  follow  in  an  ox-wagon;  they 
will  be  two  days  on  the  way;  so  I  pray  you  take  what  is 
required  for  your  immediate  needs  and  is  easily  stowed  in 
your  saddle-bow.  We  shall  have  to  make  an  early  start, 
if  you  desire  to  be  in  Brussels  by  nightfall." 

"Oh !  there  is  no  hurry,"  she  protested. 

"Ah?  Then  in  that  case  I  could  escort  you  as  far  as 
Alost,  and  send  a  courier  thence  to  your  father,  to  meet 
you  there  the  next  day." 

She  bit  her  lip  and  could  have  cried  with  vexation.  At 
the  present  moment  she  hated  him  for  so  obviously  wishing 
to  be  rid  of  her.  She  had  quite  forgotten  that  she  had 
ever  wanted  to  go. 

"I  shall  be  too  tired  to  make  an  early  start  in  the  morn- 
ing," she  said  quite  piteously.  "Why  it  is  close  on  early 
morning  now." 

She  leaned  a  little  forward  in  order  to  listen,  for  just 
then  the  chimes  of  St.  Bavon  rang  the  half-hour  after  mid- 
night. She  still  looked  a  small,  pale,  slim  ghost  with  one 
side  of  her  exquisite  face  in  shadow,  the  other  but  faintly 
illumined  by  the  light  trom  without.  Her  vexation,  her 
indecision,  were  so  plainly  expressed  in  her  eyes,  that  he 
must  indeed  have  been  vastly  dull  or  vastly  indifferent  not 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  179 

to  have  read  her  thoughts.  Nevertheless,  he  said  with  the 
same  calm  airiness  as  before: 

"A  few  hours'  rest  will  revive  you,  Madonna.  And  if 
we  only  go  as  far  as  Alost  to-morrow,  we  need  not  start 
before  midday." 

At  this  her  pride  was  aroused.  His  indifference  now 
amounted  to  insolence.  With  a  vigorous  effort  she  swal- 
lowed her  tears,  for  they  were  very  near  the  surface,  and 
then  she  rose  abruptly,  with  the  air  and  manners  of  a 
queen,  looking  down  in  her  turn  with  haughty  indiffer- 
ence on  that  abominable  Netherlander  whom  she  had  never 
hated  so  thoroughly  as  she  did  at  this  moment. 

"I  thank  you,  Messire,"  she  said  coldly,  "I  pray  you 
then  to  see  that  all  arrangements  be  complete  for  my 
journey  as  early  as  may  be.  I  would  wish  to  be  in  Brus- 
sels by  nightfall,  and  half  a  dozen  leagues  or  so  does  not 
frighten  me." 

She  rose  with  all  that  stateliness  which  was  a  part  of 
herself  and  suited  her  tall,  graceful  figure  so  admirably; 
as  she  did  so  she  gave  him  a  curt  nod  such  as  she  would 
have  bestowed  on  a  serving  man.  He  too  rose  to  his  feet 
but  he  made  no  attempt  to  detain  her.  On  the  contrary, 
he  at  once  busied  himself  with  his  tinder  box,  and  relighted 
the  little  lamp.  Then  he  went  to  the  door,  unlocked  it  and 
held  it  open  for  her  to  pass  through. 

As  she  did  so  she  took  the  lamp  from  him,  and  for  one 
moment  their  hands  met.  His  were  burning  hot  and  hers 
quite  cold — his  fingers  lingered  upon  the  satiny  softness 
of  hers. 

But  she  sailed  past  him  without  bestowing  another  glance 
upon  him,  with  little  head  erect  and  eyes  looking  straight 
out  before  her.  In  one  hand  she  held  the  lamp,  with  the 
other  she  was  holding  up  the  heavy  folds  of  her  trailing 


180  LEATHERFACE 

gown,  her  tiny  feet  in  velvet  shoes  made  no  sound  as  she 
glided  across  the  hall.  Soon  she  was  a  mere  silhouette 
with  the  light  just  playing  faintly  with  the  loose  curls  round 
her  head  and  touching  the  lines  of  her  shoulders  and  arms 
and  one  or  two  folds  of  her  gown.  She  mounted  the  stairs 
slowly  as  if  she  was  infinitely  weary;  Mark  watched  the 
graceful,  ghostlike  form  gliding  upwards  until  the  gloom 
had  swallowed  it  up. 

Then  he  turned  back  into  the  room. 


VII 


The  first  thing  that  Mark  did  when  he  was  alone  was  to 
close  the  door;  then  he  struck  a  light  and  lit  a  candle. 
With  it  in  his  hand  he  went  into  the  withdrawing-room 
and — having  peered  closely  into  the  four  corners  of  the 
room,  as  if  he  half-expected  to  see  some  night-prowler 
there — he  placed  the  candle  on  the  table,  drew  a  bunch 
of  keys  from  the  inner  pocket  of  his  doublet,  and  going 
up  to  the  bureau  proceeded  to  unlock  it  just  as  Lenora 
had  done. 

He  gave  one  quick  glance  at  the  interior  of  the  bureau, 
then  he  put  up  the  flap  and  once  more  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock. 

Having  done  this  he  stood  for  awhile  quite  still,  his 
chin  buried  in  his  hand,  his  broad  shoulders  bent,  a  deep, 
double  furrow  between  his  brows.  From  time  to  time  a 
deep  sigh  escaped  his  lips,  and  his  merry  grey  eyes  almost 
disappeared  beneath  the  heavy  frown.  Then  he  seemed 
to  shake  himself  free  from  his  obsession,  he  straightened 
out  his  tall  figure  and  threw  back  his  head  with  a  move- 
ment of  pride  and  of  defiance. 


THE  WATCHER  IN  THE  NIGHT  181 

He  took  up  the  candle  and  started  to  go  out  of  the  room, 
but  on  the  threshold  he  paused  again  and  looked  behind 
him.  The  table,  the  chairs,  the  bureau  seemed  in  a  strange 
weird  way  to  be  mocking  him — they  looked  so  placid  and 
so  immovable — so  stolid  in  the  face  of  the  terrible  calamity 
which  had  just  fallen  on  this  house. 

And  suddenly  Mark  with  a  violent  gesture  threw  the 
heavy  candlestick  to  the  ground.  The  flame  flickered  as 
it  fell  and  the  taper  rolled  about  gently  for  a  while  from 
side  to  side  until  it  landed  close  to  his  feet.  He  smothered 
a  curse  and  put  his  heel  upon  the  taper,  crushing  the  wax 
into  a  shapeless  mass;  then  with  a  curious  groan,  half 
of  pain  half  of  bitter  irony,  he  passed  his  hand  once  or 
twice  across  his  brow. 

Slowly  the  glow  of  wrath  faded  from  his  eyes,  a  look 
of  wonderful  tenderness,  coupled  with  gentle  good-humour 
and  kindliness  softened  the  rugged  lines  of  his  face.  A 
whimsical  smile  played  round  the  corners  of  his  lips. 

"She  must  be  wooed  and  she  must  be  won,"  he  mur- 
mured. "Mark,  you  lumbering  fool,  can  you  do  it?  You 
have  less  than  twenty-four  hours  in  which  .  .  ." 

He  sighed  again  and  laughed  softly  to  himself,  shaking 
his  head  dubiously  the  while.  Then  he  went  out  of  the 
room  and  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him. 


CHAPTER    IX 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY 


STRANGE  and  conflicting  were  the  feelings  which  ran  riot 
through  Lenora's  soul  when  she  once  more  found  herself 
alone  in  her  own  room.  Mortification  held  for  a  time 
undisputed  sway — a  sense  of  injury — of  having  gone  half- 
way to  meet  she  knew  not  what  and  having  been  repulsed. 
She  was  quite  sure  that  she  hated  her  husband  now,  far 
more  bitterly  than  she  had  ever  hated  any  one  before — 
at  the  same  time  she  felt  relieved  that  he  at  any  rate  had 
no  part  in  the  treachery  which  was  being  hatched  under  his 
father's  roof. 

One  thing,  however,  gave  her  an  infinite  sense  of  relief. 
She  was  going  back  to  her  father  on  the  morrow.  She 
would  leave  this  house  where  she  had  known  nothing  but 
sorrow  and  humiliation  since  first  she  entered  it;  above 
all  she  would  never  see  those  people  again  on  whom  she 
had  been  spying! 

Yes !     Spying ! 

There  was  no  other  word  for  it;  hideous  as  it  was  it 
expressed  what  Lenora  had  done.  Oh!  there  was  no 
sophistry  about  the  girl.  She  was  too  proud,  too  pure  to 
try  and  palliate  what  she  had  done,  by  shirking  to  call  it 
by  its  name.  She  had  done  a  task  which  had  been  imposed 
on  her  by  her  King,  her  country,  and  her  father.  She  had 

182 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  183 

sworn  to  do  it — sworn  it  on  the  deathbed  of  the  only  man 
who  had  ever  loved  her,  the  only  man  whose  voice  and 
touch  had  thrilled  her,  the  companion  of  her  childhood,  her 
accepted  lover  and  her  kinsman. 

She  had  done  it  because  God  Himself  through  her 
father's  and  her  King's  own  mouth  had  ordered  her  to  do 
it;  and  it  was  not  for  her — ignorant,  unsophisticated,  sinful 
mayhap — to  question  God's  decrees.  But  when  she  thought 
back  on  the  events  of  the  past  hour,  she  felt  a  shudder  of 
horror  slowly  creeping  along  her  spine. 

And  she  thanked  God  that  He  would  allow  her  to  leave 
this  house  for  ever,  and  for  ever  to  turn  her  back  on  those 
whom  she — so  unwillingly — had  betrayed. 

But  she  would  not  allow  her  mind  to  dwell  on  such 
morbid  fancies.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  done  ere 
the  morning  broke.  Her  task — if  it  was  to  be  fruitful — 
was  not  completed  yet. 

She  began  by  taking  down  a  pair  of  metal  candlesticks 
which  stood  on  a  shelf  above  the  hearth  and  lighting  the 
candles  at  a  small  lamp  which  she  had  brought  up  with 
her.  These  she  placed  upon  the  table;  then  she  went  to 
the  press  where  only  a  few  hours  ago  Inez  had  ranged  all 
her  clothes  and  effects,  her  new  gowns  and  linen.  From 
among  these  things,  she  took  a  flat  wallet  in  which  were 
some  sheets  of  paper,  a  quill  and  small  inkhorn,  also  some 
wax  for  sealing  letters  down. 

She  went  to  her  task  slowly  and  methodically,  for  she 
was  unaccustomed  to  writing  letters.  In  the  convent  they 
had  taught  her  how  to  do  it,  and  twice  a  year  she  had 
written  to  her  father — once  on  New  Year's  Day,  and  once 
on  the  feast  of  San  Juan — but  the  task  before  her  was  a 
far  more  laborious  one  than  she  had  ever  undertaken  with 
pen  and  paper. 


184  LEATHERFACE 

But  she  sat  down,  courageously,  to  write. 

She  wrote  an  account  of  everything  that  she  had  seen, 
heard  and  experienced  in  this  house,  from  the  moment 
when  first  she  left  her  room  in  the  evening  in  order  to  seek 
companionship,  until  the  moment  when,  having  secured  the 
packet  of  papers,  she  had  relocked  the  bureau  with  her 
pass-key  and  started  to  go  back  to  her  room.  What  she  did 
not  set  down  in  writing  was  her  subsequent  meeting  with 
her  husband,  for  that  had  no  connection  with  the  Prince  of 
Orange  or  with  conspiracies,  and  was  merely  a  humiliating 
episode  in  the  life  of  a  neglected  bride. 

The  grey  dawn  slowly  creeping  in  through  the  leaded 
glass  of  her  window  still  found  her  at  her  task.  The 
candles  had  burned  down  low  in  their  sockets,  their  light — 
of  a  dim  yellow  colour — fought  feebly  against  the  incoming 
dawn.  But  Lenora  felt  no  fatigue. 

She  wrote  in  a  small,  cramped  hand  and  covered  four 
sheets  of  paper  with  close  writing.  When  she  had  finished, 
she  read  all  that  she  had  written  down  carefully  through, 
made  several  corrections  in  the  text  and  folded  the  sheets 
neatly  together.  Then  she  took  from  the  bosom  of  her 
gown  the  packet  of  papers  which  she  had  found  in  the 
bureau,  put  it  together  with  her  own  writing  and  enclosed 
everything  in  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  carefully  folded  over. 
Round  this  she  tied  a  piece  of  white  ribbon,  such  as  she 
used  for  doing  up  her  hair,  and  sealed  it  all  down  with  wax. 

Finally,  on  the  outside  of  this  packet  she  wrote  with  a 
clear  hand: 

"To  don  Juan  de  Vargas  at  his  refidence  in  Brufsels. 
To  be  given  unto  Him  with  the  Seal  unbroken  in  the  eyent 
of  My  death." 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  185 


ii 


Lenora  tired  out  with  emotion  and  bodily  exertion  slept 
soundly  for  a  few  hours.  When  Inez  came  in,  in  the  late 
morning  to  wait  on  her,  she  ordered  the  old  woman  to  put 
up  a  few  necessary  effects  in  a  small  leather  valise,  and  to 
pack  up  all  her  things  and  all  her  clothes. 

"My  father  hath  need  of  me  for  a  few  days,"  she  said 
in  response  to  Inez'  exclamation  of  astonishment.  "We 
start  this  morning  for  Brussels." 

"For  which  the  Lord  be  praised,"  ejaculated  Inez  piously, 
"for  of  all  the  dull,  miserable,  uncomfortable  houses  that 
I  ever  was  in  in  my  life  .  .  ." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  woman,"  broke  in  Lenora  sharply, 
"and  see  to  your  work.  You  will  never  be  done,  if  you 
talk  so  much." 

And  Inez — more  than  ever  astonished  at  this  display 
of  temper  on  the  part  of  a  young  mistress  who  had  always 
been  kind  and  gentle — had  perforce  to  continue  her  mutter- 
ings  and  her  grumblings  under  her  breath. 

Whilst  the  old  woman  laid  out  carefully  upon  the  bed 
all  the  pretty  things  which  she  had  stowed  away  in  the 
presses  only  twenty- four  hours  ago,  Lenora  busied  herself 
with  yet  another  task  which  she  had  set  herself,  but  which 
she  had  been  too  tired  to  accomplish  in  the  night. 

She  wrote  a  short  letter  to  Laurence. 

"Mv  DEVOTED  FRIEND/'  she  wrote,  "You  promifed  Me 
a  very  little  while  ago  that  if  ever  I  wanted  You  to1  do 
fomething  for  Me,  I  was  only  to  fend  You  this  ring  and 
You  would  do  whatever  I  afked.  Now,  in  the  name  of 
Our  Lady,  I  adjure  You  to  leave  Ghent  at  once  taking 
Your  Mother  with  You.  A  grave  danger  threatens  You 


186  LEATHERFACE 

both.  I  know  that  You  have  relatives  in  Haarlem.  I 
entreat  You — nay!  I  afk  it  of  You  as  a  fulfilment  of  Your 
promife  to  go  to  them  at  once  with  Your  Mother.  Your 
Father  is  in  no  danger,  and  Mark  will  be  efcorting  Me  to 
Brufsels,  and  I  fhall  try  and  keep  Him  there  until  all  danger 
ispaft.  .  .  ." 

Having  written  thus  far,  she  paused  a  moment,  pen  in 
hand,  a  frown  of  deep  puzzlement  and  of  indecision  upon 
her  brow.  Then  she  continued  in  a  firm  hand : 

"It  is  Your  Mother's  and  Your  own  complicity  in  the 
plot  which  is  being  hatched  in  Ghent  again  ft  the  Duke  of 
Alva  which  has  brought  Your  lives  in  danger." 

She  strewed  the  sand  over  her  writing,  then  read  the 
letter  carefully  through.  After  which  she  took  a  ring  from 
off  her  finger,  enclosed  it  in  the  letter  and  sealed  the  latter 
down. 

"Inez!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  my  saint." 

"I  shall  be  starting  for  Brussels  within  the  hour." 

"Holy  Virgin!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "I  shall 
not  be  ready  with  the  packing.  Why  this  hurry,  my 
angel?" 

"Your  not  being  ready,  Inez,  is  of  no  consequence.  I 
shall  start  with  Messire  van  Rycke.  You  will  follow  on  in 
the  wagon." 

"But,  my  saint  .  .  ." 

"Now  do  not  talk  so  much,  Inez,"  broke  in  Lenora 
impatiently;  "if  you  add  to  my  anxieties  by  being  quarrel- 
some and  disobedient  I  shall  surely  fall  sick  and  die." 

Evidently  the  young  girl  knew  exactly  how  to  work  on 
her  faithful  old  servant's  temperament.  Inez  reduced  to 
abject  contrition  by  the  thought  that  she  was  rendering 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  187 

her  darling  anxious  and  sick,  swore  by  every  saint  in  the 
calendar  that  she  would  bite  off  her  tongue,  toil  like  a  slave 
and  be  as  obedient  as  a  cur,  if  only  her  darling  angel  would 
keep  well  and  cheerful  and  tell  her  what  to  do. 

"You  must  not  fret  about  me,  Inez,"  resumed  Lenora 
as  soon  as  the  old  woman's  voluble  apologies  and  protes- 
tations had  somewhat  subsided.  "My  husband  will  escort 
me  as  far  as  Brussels,  and  in  my  father's  house  little  Pepita 
will  wait  on  me  till  you  come." 

"And  if  that  flighty  wench  doesn't  look  after  you  prop- 
erly .  .  ."  began  Inez  menacingly. 

"You  will  make  her  suffer,  I've  no  doubt,"  quoth  Lenora 
dryly.  "In  the  meanwhile,  listen  carefully,  Inez,  for  there 
is  something  that  I  want  you  to  do  for  me,  which  no  one 
else  but  you  can  do." 

"For  which  the  Lord  be  thanked!"  said  Inez  fervently. 
"What  is  it,  my  dear?" 

"This  letter,"  she  said. 

"Yes?" 

"I  want  Messire  Laurence  van  Rycke  to  have  it,  after  I 
have  gone." 

"He  shall  have  it,  my  saint." 

"He  may  be  from  home." 

"I  shall  find  him." 

"He  must  have  it  before  midday." 

"He  shall  have  it." 

"Promise!" 

"I'll  swear  it." 

The  old  woman  took  the  letter  with  the  ring  which  her 
mistress  held  out  to  her,  and  then  only  did  Lenora  feel 
that  she  had  done  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to  reconcile 
her  duty  to  her  King  with  her  sentiment  for  those  who  had 
been  kind  to  her. 


188  LEATHERFACE 


in 


How  Lenora  spent  the  rest  of  the  long,  wearisome, 
interminable  morning  she  never  afterwards  could  have 
told  you.  The  very  atmosphere  around  her  oppressed  her 
well-nigh  unbearably.  There  were  the  farewells  to  be  said 
to  the  family — to  the  High-Bailiff  who  was  apologetic  and 
obsequious,  to  Clemence  who  cried,  and  to  Laurence  who 
looked  sadly  enquiring  and  reproachful. 

Fortunately  Mark  had  paved  the  way  for  these  fare- 
wells in  his  usual  airy  and  irresponsible  manner.  It  was 
the  Spanish  custom — so  he  had  assured  his  mother — that 
brides,  after  spending  twenty-four  hours  under  their  hus- 
band's roof,  returned  to  their  parents  or  guardians  for  a 
few  weeks.  Clemence  had  smiled  incredulously  when  she 
had  heard  this — but  had  allowed  herself  anon  to  be  per- 
suaded. There  were  such  queer  marriage  customs  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  world  these  days.  (Why !  in  many  parts 
of  Germany  the  bridegroom  was,  according  to  tradition, 
soundly  thrashed  by  his  friends  directly  after  the  religious 
ceremony — it  was  in  order  that  he  should  be  prepared  for 
the  many  vicissitudes  of  connubial  life.  And  there  were 
other  equally  strange  customs  in  foceign  lands.)  Spain 
Was  a  curious  country — Clemence  was  prepared  to  admit, 
and  ...  ah,  well!  perhaps  it  was  all  for  the  best!  She 
had  been  attracted  by  the  beautiful  girl  whom  indeed  a 
cruel  fate  seemed  to  have  tossed  into  the  very  midst  of  a 
family  with  whom  she  had  absolutely  nothing  in  common. 
Clemence  had  been  sorry  for  her  in  her  gentle,  motherly 
way  but  she  had  mistrusted  her  .  .  .  and  just  now  all  Cle- 
mence's  thoughts  were  centred  on  her  country's  wrongs,  on 
the  great  fight  for  political  and  religious  liberty  which  had 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  189 

received  so  severe  a  blow,  and  which  the  noble  Prince  of 
Orange  was  still  determined  to  carry  on  with  the  help 
of  God. 

And  so — though  Clemence  cried  a  little,  and  though  her 
kind  heart  ached  for  the  young  girl  who  looked  so  pathetic 
and  so  forlorn  when  she  bade  her  good-bye — she  neverthe- 
less felt  a  sense  of  relief  when  she  rememberd  all  that  had 
been  talked  of  and  planned  in  this  house  last  night,  and 
thought  of  the  packet  of  papers  which  were  locked  away 
with  her  most  precious  jewels.  She  kissed  the  girl  ten- 
derly, and  spoke  of  the  happy  day  when  she  would  come 
back  to  her  new  home  never  to  leave  it  again.  Lenora, 
pale,  like  a  young  ghost,  with  dark  rings  under  her  eyes, 
and  lips  that  quivered  with  the  sobs  she  was  vainly  trying 
to  suppress,  made  an  effort  to  respond,  and  then  hurried 
out  of  the  room.  But  when  she  saw  Laurence  he  was 
alone  in  the  hall  and  she  contrived  to  whisper  to  him: 
"You  remember  the  ring?" 

He  nodded  eagerly. 

"I  shall  soon  send  it  you,"  she  said,  "and  ask  you  to  do 
something  for  my  sake." 

"Command  me,"  he  implored,  "and  it  shall  be  done." 


IV 


Then  at  last  the  farewells  were  all  spoken  and  Lenora 
and  her  husband  started  on  their  way.  It  had  rained  in 
torrents  all  the  morning — therefore  departure  was  delayed 
until  long  past  midday.  The  wagons  for  the  effects  were 
to  be  round  almost  immediately,  but  their  progress  would 
be  very  slow  owing  to  the  bad  state  of  the  roads. 

The   road   between   Ghent  and   Brussels   runs  parallel 


190  LEATHERFACE 

with  the  Schelde  for  the  first  two  or  three  leagues.  The 
river  had  overflowed  its  banks,  and  in  places  the  road 
was  so  deep  under  water  that  the  horses  sank  in  it  almost 
up  to  their  bellies.  Everywhere  it  was  fetlock-deep  in 
mud,  and  more  like  a  ploughed  field  than  a  chaussee  owing 
to  the  continual  passage  recently  of  cavalry  and  artillery. 

Mark  and  Lenora  were  travelling  alone,  which  was  dis- 
tinctly unseemly  in  a  lady  of  her  rank,  but  the  distance  was 
not  great,  and  Inez  had  to  be  left  behind  to  finish  up  the 
packing,  whilst  Mark  refused  to  take  a  serving  man  with 
him,  declaring  that  the  roads  were  perfectly  safe  now  and 
free  from  footpads,  and  that  they  would  surely  be  in 
Brussels  before  nightfall.  Lenora,  who  was  an  absolute 
stranger  in  the  country  and  did  not  know  one  Flemish 
town  from  another — and  who  moreover  had  done  the 
journey  from  Brussels  to  Ghent  ten  days  ago  in  a  covered 
coach  drawn  by  four  horses — was  ready  to  accept  any 
suggestion  or  any  itinerary  with  the  blindness  of  ignorance. 

She  hardly  noticed  that  they  seemed  to  be  making  very 
slow  progress,  nor  that  the  sky  which  had  cleared  up 
brilliantly  in  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon  was  once  more 
heavily  overcast.  Mark  at  first  had  made  one  or  two 
attempts  at  cheerful  conversation,  but  since  Lenora  only 
answered  in  monosyllables  he  too  relapsed  into  silence  after 
awhile. 

The  flat,  monotonous  country — sodden  with  rain — looked 
unspeakably  dreary  to  the  girl  accustomed  to  the  snow-clad 
vistas  of  the  Sierras  and  the  blue  skies  of  Castille.  As 
they  left  Ghent  further  and  further  behind  them,  the 
country  bore  traces  of  the  terrible  ravages  of  Alva's  relent- 
less occupation.  Poverty  and  wretchedness  were  writ 
largely  upon  every  tiny  village  or  hamlet  which  they  passed : 
everywhere  the  houses  bore  a  miserable  and  forlorn  aspect, 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  191 

with  broken  chimneys  and  shattered  roofs,  trees  cut  down 
to  make  way  for  the  passage  of  cavalry  or  merely  for  the 
supplying  of  firewood  for  Alva's  army.  In  the  little  town 
of  Wetteren  through  which  they  passed,  the  houses  looked 
deserted  and  dilapidated :  the  people  looked  ill-clad  and 
sullen,  and  as  they  crossed  the  market-place  a  crowd  of 
beggars — men,  women  and  children  in  miserable  rags — 
flocked  around  their  horses'  heels  begging  for  alms. 

So  much  had  Spanish  occupation  done  for  this  proud 
country  which  only  a  very  few  years  ago  had  boasted  that 
not  one  of  its  children  ever  lacked  clothing  or  food.  Tears 
of  pity  gathered  in  Lenora's  eyes:  she,  of  course,  did  not 
know  that  the  misery  which  she  witnessed  was  due  to  her 
people,  to  her  country  and  to  her  King  .  .  .  and  in  no 
small  measure  to  her  father.  She  gave  the  poor  folk 
money  and  said  kindly  words  of  compassion  to  them.  Then 
she  turned  to  Mark. 

"It  is  dreadful,"  she  said  naively,  "to  see  so  much  misery 
in  the  land,  when  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King  does  so 
much  for  its  welfare.  It  is  these  wretched  internal  dissen- 
sions, I  suppose,  that  are  ruining  the  country.  Surely  all 
those  abominable  rebels  must  see  that  their  obstinacy  and 
treachery  redounds  upon  their  own  kith  and  kin." 

"They  ought  to  see  that,  oughtn't  they?"  was  Mark's 
dry  and  curt  comment.  And  Lenora,  chilled  by  such 
strange  indifference,  once  more  relapsed  into  her  former 
silence. 


When  they  neared  the  walls  of  Dendermonde,  Mark 
announced  that  his  horse  had  cast  a  shoe.  He  dismounted, 
and  leading  his  horse  by  the  bridle  he  advanced  to  the  city 


192  LEATHERFACE 

gate.  Here,  however,  both  he  and  Lenora  were  summarily 
stopped  by  a  young  provost  who  demanded  to  see  their 
papers  of  identification,  their  travelling  permits,  and  their 
permit  to  enter  this  fortified  city. 

To  Lenora's  astonishment  Mark,  who  was  always  so 
good-humoured  and  placid,  became  violent  and  abusive 
at  this  formality  imposed  upon  him.  It  was  in  no  way 
different  to  those  which  the  municipality  of  Ghent  would 
have  enjoined  on  any  stranger  who  desired  to  enter  the 
city.  These  had  been  rendered  necessary  by  the  many 
stringent  edicts  formulated  by  the  Lieutenant-Governor 
against  the  harbouring  of  rebels  in  fortified  towns,  and  all 
law-abiding  citizens  were  in  consequence  obliged  to  provide 
themselves  with  the  necessary  passes  and  permits  whenever 
they  desired  to  travel. 

Lenora — whose  ignorance  of  every  law,  every  formality, 
every  duty  imposed  upon  this  once  free  and  proud  country 
by  its  Spanish  masters  was  unbounded — could  not  quite 
understand  why  her  husband,  who  was  the  son  of  a  high 
civic  dignitary,  had  not  taken  care  that  all  his  papers  were 
in  order,  before  he  embarked  upon  this  journey.  It  surely 
had  been  his  duty  to  do  that,  in  order  to  save  himself  and 
his  wife  from  the  humiliation  of  being  thus  held  up  at  a 
city  gate  by  an  insolent  provost,  who  had  the  power  to 
make  his  authority  felt,  and  was  not  sparing  of  abuse  of 
loutish  Netherlanders  who  were  wilfully  ignorant  of  the 
law,  or  else  impudent  enough  to  flout  it.  An  unpleasant 
quarrel  between  the  two  men  would  undoubtedly  have 
ensued  and  would  inevitably  have  ended  in  disaster  for 
Mark,  but  for  the  intervention  of  Lenora  who  spoke  to 
the  provost  in  Spanish. 

"I  am  this  noble  gentleman's  wife,"  she  said  haughtily 
in  response  to  an  insolent  look  from  the  young  soldier, 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  193 

"and  the  daughter  of  sefior  Juan  de  Vargas,  who  will 
make  you  responsible,  sirrah,  for  any  inconvenience  you 
may  cause  me." 

At  mention  of  the  all-powerful  and  dreaded  name,  the 
provost's  manner  immediately  underwent  a  change.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  not  prepared  to  accept  the  statement 
quite  so  unconditionally  as  Lenora  had  supposed. 

"This  noble  gentleman,"  he  retorted  half -sullenly,  "hath 
no  papers  whereby  I  can  verify  the  truth  of  what  he  asserts. 
He  has  none  whereby  he  can  prove  to  me  that  he  is  the 
son  of  the  High-Bailiff  of  Ghent,  and  that  you  are  his 
wife  and  the  daughter  of  don  Juan  de  Vargas." 

"You  have  my  word  for  both  these  assertions,  you 
accursed  fool,"  exclaimed  Mark  hotly. 

"And  I'll  make  you  rue  your  insolence,  you  dog  of  a 
Netherlander,"  retorted  the  provost,  "and  teach  you  how 
to  treat  a  soldier  of  the  King.  .  .  ." 

"Mark,  I  entreat  you,  not  in  my  presence,"  broke  in 
Lenora  hastily,  for  she  saw  that  her  husband — apparently 
beside  himself  with  rage — w.as  about  to  commit  one  of 
those  foolish  and  purposeless  acts  of  violence  which  would 
have  resulted  for  them  both  in  a  veritable  chaplet  of  un- 
pleasantness:  imprisonment  in  a  guard-room,  bringing  up 
before  a  sheriff,  interrogations,  abuse  and  insults,  until  the 
High-Bailiff  or  her  father  could  be  communicated  with — a 
matter  probably  of  two  or  three  days,  dependent  on  the 
good  will  of  the  very  sheriff  before  whom  they  would 
appear. 

It  was  positively  unthinkable.  Lenora  could  not  under- 
stand how  Mark  could  be  so  foolish  as  to  lose  his  temper, 
when  he  was  so  obviously  in  the  wrong,  nor  how  he  could 
have  been  so  thoughtless  in  the  matter  of  the  papers. 

She  managed  by  dint  of  tactful  speech  and  the  power 


194-  LEATHERFACE 

of  her  beautiful  personality  to  pacify  the  wrath  of  the 
provost,  and  to  half -persuade  him  to  believe  her  assertion 
that  she  was  indeed  the  daughter  of  don  Juan  de  Vargas. 
At  any  rate  the  young  soldier  was  by  now  sufficiently 
impressed  by  the  sound  of  that  dreaded  name  to  decline 
any  further  responsibility  in  this  difficult  matter. 

He  allowed  the  travellers  to  pass  through  the  city  gates : 
"And  to  remain  within  the  city  for  two  hours,"  he  added 
significantly;  "if  you  wish  to  stay  the  night,  you  must 
obtain  permission  from  the  Schout." 

Mark  eased  his  temper  by  muttering  a  few  more  impre- 
cations under  his  breath,  then  he  seemed  content  and  some- 
what pacified,  and  finally  led  Lenora's  horse  and  his  own 
quietly  through  the  inner  fortifications,  and  thence  across 
the  Flax  Market  to  the  Grand'  Place. 


VI 


Mark  established  his  young  wife  in  the  ingle-nook  of 
the  tapperij  in  the  highly-respectable  tavern  of  the  "Merry 
Beggars,"  opposite  the  Cloth  Hall. 

He  enjoined  the  host  and  hostess  to  take  every  care  of 
the  noble  lady,  and  then  he  went  off  himself  in  search  of  a 
farrier. 

Fortunately  at  this  hour — it  was  just  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon — the  tapperij  was  practically  deserted.  In 
one  corner  by  the  window,  two  middle-aged  burghers  were 
playing  hazard,  in  another  a  soldier  was  fast  asleep.  Mine 
host  was  passing  kind;  he  brought  a  roomy  armchair  up 
to  the  hearth  for  the  pretty  lady,  threw  a  fresh  log  upon 
the  fire,  kicked  it  into  a  blaze  and  placed  a  footstool  at 
Lenora's  feet.  His  wife — a  buxom  though  sad-eyed 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  195 

Flemish  vrouw — brought  her  some  warm  milk  and  a  piece 
of  wheaten  bread.  Lenora  ate  and  drank  with  relish  for 
she  was  both  hungry  and  tired,  and  when  she  had  finished 
eating,  she  leaned  back  in  the  big  armchair  and  soon  fell 
comfortably  asleep.  She  had  had  practically  no  rest  the 
night  before:  her  nerves  were  overstrung,  and  her  eyes  hot 
with  weeping.  There  was  also  a  heavy  load  on  her  heart 
—a  load  chiefly  weighted  by  the  packet  which  was  destined 
for  her  father  and  which  she  still  carried  carefully  hidden 
in  the  bosom  of  her  gown. 

So  strange  are  the  contradictions  of  the  human  heart — 
of  a  woman's  heart  above  all — that  ofttimes  to-day  as  her 
horse  ambled  slowly  along  beside  Mark's  she  had  caught 
herself  wishing — hoping — that  something  unforeseen 
would  occur  which  would  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  go 
to  Brussels — something  which  would  force  her  to  go  back 
to  Ghent  with  the  contents  of  that  packet  still  a  close  secret 
within  her  heart.  In  the  morning  she  had  watched  the 
skies  anxiously,  hardly  aware  that  within  her  innermost 
soul  she  was  hoping  that  the  continuous  rains  had  made  the 
roads  impassable — broken  down  a  bridge — that  some  sign 
in  fact  would  come  to  her  from  God  that  she  was  absolved 
from  that  awful  oath,  the  fulfilment  of  which  seemed  indeed 
an  impossible  task. 

Then  would  come  a  terrible  revulsion  of  feeling:  she 
would  remember  that  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  even  now 
in  Ghent,  with  two  thousand  men  who  were  to  be  armed 
by  him  so  that  they  might  fight  against  their  King  and 
threaten  the  life  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  the  King's 
own  chosen  representative.  And  she  would  hate  and 
despise  herself  for  her  cowardly  irresolution — her  very 
prayer  to  God  appeared  like  blasphemy — and  she  wanted 
to  urge  the  horses  forward,  she  fretted  at  every  delay, 


196  LEATHERFACE 

for  delay  might  mean  the  murder  of  the  Duke  of  Alva,  and 
the  standard  of  rebellion  hoisted  up  in  triumph  above  the 
Town  House  of  Ghent. 

Women  will  understand  and  pity  her — those  at  least 
who  once  in  their  life  have  been  torn  'twixt  duty  and 
sentiment.  Lenora  was  not  one  of  the  strong-minded  of 
her  sex:  she  was  very  young — a  mere  girl  reared  in  the 
tranquillity  of  convent  life,  and  then  suddenly  thrown  into 
the  vortex  of  political  intrigue,  of  cruel  reprisals  and  bitter 
revolt;  and  heart  and  mind  within  her  fought  a  terrible 
battle  which  threatened  to  ruin  her  entire  life. 

But  in  the  meanwhile  she  was  sorely  in  need  of  rest. 
The  tap perij  was  so  quiet  and  the  ingle-nook  was  rendered 
quite  private  by  a  tall  screen  between  it  and  the  rest  of  the 
room.  The  soldier  in  the  corner  was  snoring  with  insistent 
monotony,  a  big  blue-bottle  droned  against  the  window, 
and  a  pleasing  glow  and  cheerful  crackling  came  from  the 
fire  in  the  hearth. 

Lenora  slept  peacefully. 


CHAPTER   X 

ENEMIES 


WHEN  she  woke,  Mark  was  sitting  as  he  was  so  fond  of 
doing  on  a  low  stool  close  to  the  hearth,  with  one  long 
leg  stretched  out  to  the  blaze,  his  elbow  resting  on  his 
knee,  his  face  overshadowed  by  his  hand.  Lenora — even 
as  she  first  opened  her  eyes — saw  that  he  was  looking  at 
her.  A  quick  blush  rose  to  her  cheeks. 

"Is  it  time  to  go  ?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied. 

She  was  a  little  startled  and  looked  around  her,  puzzled 
and  anxious.  The  room  had  looked  so  light  and  cheerful 
when  she  had  entered  it — two  large  bow  windows  gave 
on  the  Grand'  Place — and  the  weather  had  remained  clear 
and  bright.  But  now  it  seemed  so  dark,  almost  as  if  twi- 
light was  fading  fast. 

"What  hour  is  it?"  she  questioned,  and  looked  about 
her  anxiously  for  a  clock. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  replied  airily. 

"But  your  horse  ?" 

"Still  at  the  farrier's :  he  was  busy  and  could  not  shoe 
her  at  once." 

"But  I  am  sure  that  it  must  be  getting  late,"  she  said 
with  a  sudden  note  of  anxiety  in  her  voice. 

"Very  late,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Then  should  we  not  be  starting  for  Brussels?" 

197 


198  LEATHERFACE 

"We  cannot.     I  have  no  horse." 

"You  can  hire  one,  surely?" 

"Not  in  this  town." 

"But  I  must  be  in  Brussels  by  nightfall,"  she  urged. 

"I  am  afraid  that  this  is  impossible  in  any  case.  The 
powers  that  reign  supreme  in  this  town  would  not — if  you 
remember — allow  us  into  it,  and  now  they  will  not  allow 
us  out." 

"But  that  is  impossible,"  she  exclaimed,  "mon- 
strous! .  .  ." 

"Monstrous,  as  you  say,  Madonna,"  he  rejoined  with 
a  smile.  "But  do  you  feel  equal  to  scaling  the  city 
walls?" 

"Oh!" 

"I  fear  me  that  that  would  be  the  only  thing  to  do,  if 
indeed  you  desire  to  be  in  Brussels  this  night  .  .  .  and 
even  then,  I  doubt  but  that  they  would  bring  us  back." 

"Then,  Messire,"  she  asked,  trying  to  appear  as  calm, 
as  detached,  as  he  seemed  to  be,  "do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  we  must  spend  the  night — here  ?" 

"It  is  a  pretty  city  .  .  ."  he  suggested. 

"That  we  cannot  now  start  for  Brussels?" 

"Impossible.  The  Schout  of  Dendermonde  hath  refused 
to  allow  us  out  of  this  city  until  we  have  proved  to  his 
satisfaction  that  we  are  neither  spies  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  nor  emissaries  of  the  Queen  of  England." 

"You  should  have  seen  to  it,  Messire,"  she  said  haughtily, 
"that  all  our  papers  were  in  order.  This  is  an  exceedingly 
mortifying  and  unpleasant  contretemps." 

"I  did  not  know  the  French  word  for  it,  Madonna," 
he  rejoined  with  exasperating  good-humour,  "but  I  know 
that  it  must  be  somewhat  unpleasant  .  .  .  for  you." 

She  tried  to  meet  his  glance,  without  that  tell-tale  blush 


ENEMIES  199 

spreading  immediately  over  her  cheeks :  and  she  could  have 
cried  with  vexation  when  she  saw  that  the  merry  twinkle 
was  more  apparent  in  his  grey  eyes  than  it  had  been  since 
their  wedding  day. 

"I  believe,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  you,  Messire,  have 
devised  this  scheme  from  beginning  to  end.  You  neg- 
lected your  papers  purposely — purposely  you  quarrelled 
with  the  provost  at  the  gate — purposely  you  have  caused 
me  to  be  detained  in  this  miserable  city.  .  .  ." 

"A  pretty  city,  Madonna,"  he  interposed  imperturbably, 
"the  church  was  built  three  hundred  years  ago  .  .  .  the 
Cloth  Hall  .  .  ." 

"And  now  you  are  impertinent,"  she  declared  hotly. 

"Impertinent,"  he  said  quietly,  even  though  the  merry, 
gently  mocking  glance  still  lingered  in  his  eyes,  "imperti- 
nent because  I  decline  to  look  on  the  present  situation  as  a 
tragedy?  How  can  I  do  that,  Madonna,  since  it  gives 
me  the  opportunity  of  spending  an  evening  alone  with 
you?" 

"You  might  have  done  that  yesterday  and  saved  me 
much  humiliation,"  she  retorted. 

"Yesterday  I  was  a  fool,  Madonna,"  he  said.  "To-day 
I  have  become  a  wise  man." 

"What  hath  changed  you?" 

"Ten  minutes  of  your  company  in  the  dining-hall  last 
night." 

She  made  no  reply,  glad  enough  that  at  this  moment 
twilight  was  already  fading  into  dusk.  In  the  ingle-nook 
where  they  sat,  there  was  hardly  any  light  now  save  the 
glow  of  the  fire.  Anon  the  buxom,  sad-eyed  hostess  came 
in  carrying  a  lamp  which  she  placed  on  one  of  the  tables 
in  the  tappcrij.  She  seemed  to  know — by  that  subtle  in- 
stinct which  pertains  to  every  woman's  heart — that  the 


200  LEATHERFACE 

seignior  and  his  noble  lady  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed. 
This  was  not  the  busy  hour  at  the  hostel:  in  about  an 
hour's  time,  the  soldiers  off  duty  would  be  coming  in,  and 
the  shopkeepers  from  their  shops  after  their  day's  work; 
but  just  now  there  was  no  one,  so  the  kindly  old  soul  hav- 
ing so  placed  the  lamp  that  a  beneficent  shadow  still  envel- 
oped the  ingle-nook,  quietly  tip-toed  out  of  the  room. 


ii 


Several  minutes  went  by  before  Lenora  was  able  to 
shake  off  the  curious  torpor  which  had  fallen  over  her 
senses:  nor  could  she  in  any  way  account  for  the  sweet 
feeling  of  well-being  which  accompanied  it.  She  had  made 
no  reply  to  Mark's  last  words,  nor  did  she  make  any  now. 
She  lay  back  in  her  chair  with  eyes  half  closed,  feeling, 
knowing  that  he  was  looking  at  her  unceasingly,  with  that 
intent,  searching  gaze  of  his  which  she  had  encountered 
once  or  twice  before.  She  felt  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
reach  her  very  soul — he,  the  careless  ne'er-do-well,  the 
dissolute  frequenter  of  taverns — what  did  he  care  for  a 
woman's  soul? 

And  yet  it  seemed  impossible  for  Lenora  at  this  moment 
to  disguise  from  that  searching  gaze  all  those  terrible  con- 
flicts which  had  literally  been  tearing  her  heart  asunder 
in  the  past  few  hours — nay,  more!  it  seemed  as  if  the 
very  letter  which  lay  inside  the  folds  of  her  kerchief  ad- 
dressed to  her  father  must  be  lying  open  before  her  hus- 
band's eyes  and  that  he  was  reading  it  even  now. 

The  feeling  became  akin  to  a  sweet  obsession,  and  grad- 
ually she  allowed  her  senses  to  yield  themselves  to  its 
soothing  influence.  After  all  had  she  not  been  sure  that 


ENEMIES  201 

sooner  or  later  God  would  make  His  will  manifest  to  her? 
had  she  not  prayed  for  guidance?  had  she  not  hoped  all 
the  morning  that  something  would  prevent  her  journey  to 
Brussels  ?  Content  to  leave  everything  in  God's  hands  she 
had  yet  hoped  that  God  would  point  the  way  to  which  her 
own  heart  was  tending. 

And  now,  circumstances  had  suddenly  occurred  which 
did  impede  the  journey — the  horse  had  cast  a  shoe,  the 
provost  at  the  gate  had  proved  officious,  the  hour  had 
slipped  by  and  no  horse  was  forthcoming. 

Given  the  absolute  simplicity  of  the  girl's  religious 
thoughts,  her  upbringing,  the  superstition  which  under- 
lay all  beliefs  in  the  old  tenets  of  the  Church  during  this 
period  of  stress  and  struggle  through  which  she  was  grop- 
ing her  way  through  darkness  into  light:  given  Lenora's 
pure  nature  and  the  proud  humility  which  accepted  un- 
questioningly  all  the  commands  of  those  whom  she  had  been 
taught  to  reverence,  was  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  while  she 
was  quite  ready  to  do  her  duty,  she  should  nevertheless 
hope  and  think  that  she  had  at  last  received  a  distinct, 
supernatural  sign  that  her  journey  to  Brussels  was  not  one 
of  those  decrees  of  God  before  which  everything  on  earth 
must  bow  and  every  obstacle  be  removed  ? 

But  even  then — in  spite  of  her  wishes  and  her  hopes — 
she  fought  on  to  the  last  and  refused  to  yield  to  the  sweet, 
insistent  call  of  peace  and  of  sentiment.  What  she  took 
to  be  a  sign  from  God  might  easily  be  an  insidious  machina- 
tion of  the  devil.  There  was  a  quaint  look  of  gentle 
amusement  in  Mark's  eyes,  which  was  certainly  disquiet- 
ing, and  it  was  just  possible  that  it  was  he  who  had — 
wittingly  or  unwittingly — assumed  the  role  of  a  guiding 
Providence  in  the  matter. 

Therefore  she  steeled  her  heart  against  those  subtle  whis- 


802  LEATHERFACE 

perings  which  seemed  to  lure  her  on  every  side  to  give  up 
the  fight,  to  allow  herself  to  drift  on  the  soothing  wave 
which  even  now  was  carrying  her  to  a  haven,  where  all  was 
peace  and  quietude  and  where  there  was  neither  strife  nor 
intrigue. 

"Messire,"  she  said  abruptly  and  as  repellently  as  she 
could,  "I  pray  you  enlighten  mine  ignorance.  How  many 
cowardly  deeds  of  this  sort  stand  to  your  discredit?" 

He  smiled  quite  unperturbed ;  "You  think  me  an  adept?" 
he  asked  quietly. 

"You  are  not  ashamed?"  she  retorted. 

"Not  in  the  least.    What  have  I  done  ?" 

"Insulted  me  at  every  turn,"  she  said  very  calmly. 
"What  is  this  detention- — here,  alone  with  you,  in  this 
strange  town,  away  even  from  the  protection  of  my  own 
serving  wench — what  is  it  but  an  insult  ?  You  have  shown 
me  plainly  enough,  by  every  means  in  your  power,  that  you 
had  no  liking  for  me.  Even  last  night  .  .  ." 

She  paused  because  tears  of  humiliation — which  she 
would  have  given  worlds  not  to  shed — would  come  to  her 
eyes,  and  her  voice  shook  in  spite  of  every  effort  which  she 
made  at  self-control. 

"Madonna,"  he  entreated,  and  suddenly  he  was  quite 
close  to  her,  with  one  knee  almost  touching  the  ground, 
"as  you  are  beautiful,  so  will  you  not  be  merciful  to  a 
miserable  wretch,  who  hath  been  sorely  perplexed  by  all 
the  disdain  which  you  have  so  generously  lavished  upon 
him?" 

"Disdain,  Messire  .  .  .  surely  I  ..." 

"Surely,"  he  broke  in  gently,  "you  have  every  right  to 
despise  a  worthless  fellow  whom  an  evil  Chance  hath  given 
you  for  husband,  but  have  I  not  been  punished  enough  for 
daring  to  accept  what  the  kind  goddess  did  offer  me?" 


ENEMIES  203 

"I  had  no  thought  of  punishing  you,  Messire,"  she  said 
earnestly.  "When  I  stood  beside  you  at  the  altar,  I  was  a 
broken-hearted  woman  to  whom  Fate  in  the  person  of  a 
miserable  assassin  had  dealt  a  cruel  blow.  I  loved  my 
cousin,  Messire  ...  oh!  I  know,"  she  broke  in  quietly, 
"I  ought  not  to  speak  of  this  ...  it  is  unseemly  and  per- 
haps unkind  .  .  .  but  I  did  love  him  and  he  was  mur- 
dered .  .  .  foully,  abominably,  wickedly  murdered  .  .  . 
not  killed  in  fair  fight — not  openly — but  in  a  dark  passage 
— waylaid  by  a  brigand  .  .  .  killed !  he !  the  only  man  who 
had  ever  spoken  tenderly  to  me !  .  .  .  and  killed  by  one  of 
your  own  people  ...  a  friend  of  the  Prince  of  Orange 
...  a  man  whom  popular  talk  hath  nicknamed  Leather- 
face.  .  .  .  Oh!  I  know,"  she  added  hastily,  seeing  that 
instinctively  he  had  drawn  away  from  her  and  was  now 
staring  straight  into  the  fire,  with  a  hard  expression  on  his 
face  which  she  could  not  fathom,  "I  know  that  you  have 
no  hand  in  these  conspiracies  .  .  .  that  from  indifference 
rather  than  loyalty,  I  believe  you  have  never  taken  up  the 
cause  of  rebellion  against  our  Sovereign  Lord;  but  tell  me, 
Messire,  could  I — a  young,  inexperienced  girl — could  I  dis- 
sociate you  and  yours  in  my  mind  from  that  faction  who 
had  sent  my  kinsman  to  his  death?  could  I  come  to  you 
with  a  whole  heart,  and  a  soul  freed  from  all  thoughts  of 
hatred  and  revenge?  I  meant  to  do  my  duty  by  you  and 
had  you  but  helped  me  I  might  have  succeeded — instead 
of  which  your  coldness  repelled  me.  I  am  of  the  south, 
Messire,  I  am  not  one  of  your  cold,  unemotional  Nether- 
landers  who  can  go  through  life  without  one  thrill  of  the 
heart  brought  on  by  a  tender  word  or  a  caress.  I  was  in 
your  house  but  a  few  hours  and  already  my  soul  was 
starving — my  heart  craved  for  that  which  you  were  not 
able  to  give." 


204  LEATHERFACE 

"God  forgive  me,  Madonna,"  he  murmured,  "for  a 
blind,  insensate  fool!"  But  he  did  not  look  at  her  as  he 
said  this,  and  there  was  a  curious  dreary  tone  in  his  voice 
so  unlike  his  usual  light-hearted  gaiety.  "How  you  must 
hate  us  all !"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

"I  would  not  hate  you,  Messire,"  she  said  so  softly  that 
he  scarcely  could  hear;  "your  brother  Laurence  hath  been 
kind  to  me  and  I  know  that  you  take  no  part  in  those 
miserable  plots  that  have  treachery  and  assassination  for 
their  ultimate  goal.  As  for  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  his 
friends!  Yes!  I  do  hate  them  as  I  do  all  pestilential 
creatures  that  turn  on  the  hand  that  feeds  them!" 

"Madonna,"  he  exclaimed  hotly — and  suddenly  he  was 
quite  close  to  her  once  again,  both  her  little  hands  held 
tightly  in  his  own:  his  eyes  had  lost  all  their  merriment: 
they  were  full  of  a  glowing  ardour  which  seemed  to  pene- 
trate into  her  very  soul.  "Madonna,"  he  continued,  "may 
God  forgive  you,  for  indeed  you  know  not  what  you  say. 
Child !  child !  will  you  think  a  moment — are  we  not  human 
creatures  like  yourself?  do  we  not  live  and  breathe,  and 
eat  and  love  just  like  you  do  in  Spain?  Have  we  no  hearts 
to  feel,  no  eyes  to  see  the  misery  which  our  people  suffer 
through  the  presence  of  a  stranger  in  our  land?  Would 
you  see  a  Teuton  place  his  iron  heel  on  Spain  and  on  her 
people?  Would  you  see  the  Emperor  enforce  his  laws,  his 
faith,  his  ideals  upon  your  kith  and  kin  ?  Would  you  stand 
by  whilst  foreign  soldiery  swaggered  about  your  cities, 
outraged  your  women  and  plundered  your  homes  ?  Would 
you  rest  content  if  the  faith  which  God  hath  given  you  was 
made  akin  to  treachery  and  to  rebellion?  The  hand  that 
feeds  the  Netherlands,  Madonna !"  he  added  whilst  a  bitter, 
mirthless  laugh  escaped  his  lips,  "nay!  the  hand  against 
which  the  valiant  Prince  of  Orange  hath  raised  his  in  ven- 


ENEMIES  205 

geance,  is  the  hand  that  hath  devastated  our  land,  pillaged 
our  cities  and  sent  our  people  naked  and  starving  out  into 
the  world !" 

Gradually  while  he  spoke  she  had  drawn  herself  away 
from  him,  and  she  would  have  disengaged  her  hands  too, 
only  that  he  held  them  so  tightly  imprisoned. 

"But  Ramon  was  murdered,  Messire,"  she  said  slowly, 
"can  you  expect  me  to  forget  that? — and  even  now — I 
would  dare  swear — there  are  men  who  would  murder  the 
Duke  of  Alva  if  they  could  ...  or  my  father." 

He  made  no  answer  to  that — perhaps  had  she  not  men- 
tioned her  father  he  might  have  tried  to  tell  her  that  killing 
was  not  always  murder,  but,  at  times,  the  work  of  a  jus- 
ticiary. Ramon — like  the  noisome  brute  that  he  was — 
deserved  death  as  no  mere  ordinary  criminal  ever  had  de- 
served it.  But  how  could  he  tell  her  that,  when  in  her 
heart  she  had  evidently  kept  a  picture  of  the  man  so  totally 
unlike  the  vile  and  execrable  reality?  So  now  he  only 
sighed  and  remained  silent. 

The  time  had  not  yet  come  when  this  exquisite,  tender- 
hearted girl  must  see  the  riddles  of  life  solved  before  her 
one  by  one — when  she  would  realise  that  there  is  a  wider 
horizon  in  this  world  than  that  which  she  perceived 
above  a  convent  wall.  She  had  been  brought  up  with 
ideals,  thoughts  and  aspirations  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  great  and  bitter  truths  which  were  proclaimed 
in  every  corner  of  this  downtrodden  land.  Her  ideas 
of  King  and  country,  of  duty,  of  loyalty,  must  all  be 
shattered  by  the  crude  realities  of  life  ere  upon  their  ruins 
she  built  for  herself  a  purer,  holier  edifice  of  faith  and 
hope  and  infinite  charity. 

A  tender  pity  for  her  innocence  and  her  ignorance  filled 
Mark's  heart  and  soul.  A  maddening  desire  seized  him  to 


206  LEATHERFACE 

fold  her  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  away  somewhere  into  a 
dream-world  far  away  where  there  were  no  intrigues  and 
no  cruelties,  no  oppression  and  misery:  and  yet  again  he 
would  have  loved  to  go  with  her  there  where  sorrow  and 
poverty  were  keenest,  for  he  knew  that  her  soul — unbe- 
known even  to  herself — was  full  of  that  gentle  compassion 
which  knows  how  to  alleviate  pain  just  by  a  look  from  tear- 
dimmed  eyes,  or  a  touch  from  a  gentle  hand. 

All  that  and  more  his  look  conveyed  to  her  although  he 
remained  silent,  and  she — by  a  curious  intuition — knew 
just  what  was  in  his  mind.  The  impassioned  appeal  which 
he  had  made  to  her  just  now,  told  her  that  he  was  not  the 
indifferent  ne'er-do-well  that  every  one  supposed.  He  felt 
deeply  and  keenly — more  deeply  and  keenly  mayhap  than 
those  men  who  plotted  murders  at  dead  of  night.  He 
was  not  a  blind  follower  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor  or  of 
her  father:  he  saw  the  misery  under  which  his  people 
groaned,  and  his  careless,  detached  air  obviously  hid  in- 
tense bitterness  and  resentment. 

But  strangely  enough,  she  did  not  blame  him  for  this. 
Suddenly  she  seemed  to  see  the  whole  aspect  of  this  strange 
country  under  a  new  light :  the  cause  of  the  Netherlanders 
had — in  one  instant — appeared  to  her  from  a  wholly  differ- 
ent point  of  view.  Because  Mark  was  their  defender  and 
their  champion  she  felt  that  they  could  not  be  wholly  vile. 
This,  mayhap,  was  not  logic,  but  it  was  something  more 
potent,  more  real  than  logic — the  soft  insinuating  voice  of 
Sentiment  which  whispered:  "Would  he  champion  that 
cause  if  it  were  base?  Would  that  fiery  ardour  fill  his  soul 
for  a  cause  that  was  unworthy?" 

And  Lendra  suddenly  felt  an  overwhelming  desire  to 
confide  in  this  one  man ;  to  place  before  him  all  the  perplexi- 
ties which  were  tearing  her  soul.  Somehow  she  felt  that 


ENEMIES  207 

he  would  help  her  out  of  that  tangled  labyrinth  wherein 
she  had  been  groping  all  night  and  all  day ;  but  shyness  held 
her  back.  She  did  not  know  how  to  broach  the  subject, 
how  to  tell  him  all  about  her  oath,  her  obedience  to  her 
father,  what  she  had  done  last  night,  what  she  thought  it 
her  duty  to  do  in  the  future. 

It  was  all  very  difficult  and  Lenora  sighed  wearily: 

"There  is  so  much  in  what  you  said  just  now,  Messire," 
she  began  timidly,  "that  I  would  like  to  understand  more 
clearly.  I  am  so  ignorant  .  .  .  my  life  has  been  so  re- 
stricted ...  I  know  so  little  of  the  world.  ..." 

"Will  you  let  me  give  you  a  few  lessons?"  he  queried 
softly.  "There  are  so  many  mazes  in  life  through  which 
it  is  only  possible  to  find  the  way  by  going  hand  in  hand." 

"Hand  in  hand?"  she  sighed.  "I  am  a  stranger  in  this 
strange  land,  Messire  ...  all  that  I  know  of  it  hath  been 
taught  me  by  those  who  have  no  love  for  it.  ... " 

"You  are  a  stranger  in  this  whole  world,  dear  heart," 
he  said  with  a  smile.  "This  little  bit  of  Netherlands  is  but 
a  tiny  corner  of  it :  its  sorrows,  its  joys,  its  pain  and  happi- 
ness are  but  the  sorrows  and  happiness  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  One  day  perhaps  you  will  let  me  take  your  little 
hand  in  mine,  and  then  we  would  go  and  explore  the  whole 
of  this  strange  world  together." 

"I  wonder  what  we  would  find?"  she  mused. 

"We  would  find  that  despite  intrigues  and  cruelty  and 
hatred  there  is  much  in  it  that  is  still  beautiful  and  pure. 
If  we  went  hand  in  hand,  you  and  I,  we  would  not  wander 
with  eyes  downcast  and  seeking  in  the  mud  for  the  noxious 
things  which  foul  God's  creation  by  their  presence — we 
would  look  upwards,  sweet,  and  see  the  soft  blue  of  our 
northern  skies,  veiled  as  it  so  often  is  with  silvery  mists 
that  hold  the  entire  gamut  of  exquisite  colours  in  their  fairy 


208  LEATHERFACE 

bosoms ;  we  would  see  the  green  leaves  of  the  trees  turn  to 
russet  and  gold  in  the  autumn,  we  would  see  the  linnets 
nesting  in  the  bay  trees  in  the  spring.  There  are  many 
beautiful  things  in  this  dreary  world  of  ours,  dear  heart, 
but  they  can  only  be  seen  if  two  pairs  of  eyes  look  on  them 
at  one  and  the  same  time  and  two  pairs  of  lips  whisper 
together  in  thankfulness  to  God." 

How  strange  it  was  to  hear  him  talking  like  this — Mark 
van  Rycke,  the  haunter  of  taverns  and  careless  profligate. 
Lenora's  eyes,  dark,  luminous,  enquiring,  were  fixed  upon 
him — and  gradually  as  he  spoke  his  arm  stole  closer  and 
closer  round  her  shoulders  as  it  had  done  two  nights  ago 
in  Ghent  when  she  had  so  wantonly  turned  on  him  in 
hatred.  Now  she  felt  as  if  she  could  go  on  listening  to  him 
for  hours  and  hours — thus  alone  in  this  semi-darkness  with 
the  glow  of  dying  embers  upon  his  face,  showing  the  strong 
outline  of  cheek  and  jaw,  and  the  fine  sweep  of  the  fore- 
head with  the  straight  brows  above  those  kind,  grey  eyes. 
She  could  have  listened  because  she  loved  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  and  the  quaint,  foreign  intonation  wherewith  he 
spoke  the  Spanish  tongue. 

No !  of  a  truth  she  did  not  dislike  him :  certainly  she  had 
no  cause  for  hatred  against  him,  for  what  had  he  to  do 
with  traitors  or  with  assassins,  he  who  spoke  so  gently  of 
birds  and  skies  and  trees  ? 

"If  you  will  still  let  me  hold  this  little  hand,  dear  heart," 
he  whispered  now,  speaking  so  low  that  in  order  to  hear 
she  had  to  lower  her  head  until  his  lips  were  quite  close 
to  her  ear,  "we  could  learn  one  lesson  together  which  God 
only  teaches  to  His  elect." 

"And  what  lesson  is  that?"  she  asked,  feigning  not  to 
understand,  though  she  knew  quite  well  what  the  answer 
would  be. 


ENEMIES  209 

"That  which  the  nightingale  teaches  its  mate  when  in 
May  the  hawthorn  is  in  bloom  and  the  west  wind  whispers 
among  its  leaves.  The  lesson  of  love." 

"Love?"  she  said  with  a  strange  tremour  in  her  voice, 
"the  world  no  longer  contains  love  for  me.  ..." 

"The  world  perhaps  not,  dear  sweet,"  he  said  more  gaily, 
"but  there  is  a  heart  beating  close  to  yours  now  which  holds 
I  swear  an  infinity  of  love  for  you." 

And  once  more  as  he  spoke,  the  same  magic  spell  of  a 
while  ago  descended  upon  Lenora.  It  seemed  as  if  for  the 
moment  life — the  dreary,  wretched  life  of  the  past  few  days 
i — had  ceased,  and  a  kind  of  dream-existence  had  begun. 
And  in  this  dream-existence  she — Lenora — was  all  alone 
with  this  stranger — this  man  whom  but  a  few  days  ago  she 
had  not  even  seen — who  had  had  no  part  in  her  life  in  the 
peaceful  past  when  she  knew  nothing  of  the  world  beyond 
the  old  convent  walls  at  Segovia;  yet  now — in  the  dream- 
existence — she  was  alone  with  him  and  she  was  content. 
Ramon  was  not  there — he  had  become  the  past — all  the 
future  for  her  seemed  suddenly  to  be  bound  up  with  Mark, 
and  she  was  content.  He  had  spoken  of  beauty,  of  skies, 
of  birds  and  of  the  gifts  of  God,  and  he  still  held  her 
hand,  and  his  arm  now  was  right  round  her,  so  that  she 
could  feel  him  drawing  her  closer  and  closer  to  him,  the 
while  the  magic  spell  worked  upon  her  senses  and  she  felt 
a  delicious  languor  pervading  her  entire  being. 

"Give  me  your  lips,  sweetheart,"  he  whispered  in  her 
ear,  "and  I'll  give  you  your  first  lesson  even  now." 

And  verily  I  do  believe  that  Lenora  would  have  yielded 
here  and  now — content  to  leave  the  great  solution  of  her 
life's  riddle  in  the  omnipotent  hands  of  love — forgetting 
her  oath  to  her  father,  the  death  of  Ramon,  the  danger 
which  threatened  the  Duke  of  Alva,  conspiracies,  treach- 


210  LEATHERFACE 

cries,  rebellion  .  .  .  everything!  What  did  it  all  matter? 
what  did  the  world  and  its  intrigues  and  its  politics  count 
beside  the  insistent,  the  wonderful  call  of  Love? — the  call 
of  man  to  woman,  of  bird  to  bird,  to  mate  and  to  nest  and 
to  be  happy,  to  forget  the  universe  in  one  embrace,  to 
renounce  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  in  the  first  blissful 
kiss. 

For  a  few  seconds  Lenora  remained  quite  still,  while 
Happiness — the  strange  and  mysterious  elf — fluttered 
softly  about  the  room.  It  hovered  for  awhile  above  that 
ingle-nook  where  two  young  hearts  were  mutely  calling  one 
to  another,  and  it  looked  down  on  the  beautiful  girl  with 
the  glowing  eyes  and  parted  lips  who  with  every  fibre  of  her 
ardent  being  and  the  insistence  of  her  youth  was  ready  to 
capture  it.  ... 

And  Chance,  Fate  or  its  own  elusive  nature  drove  it 
relentlessly  away. 


in 


How  peaceful  was  the  sleepy  little  town  at  this  moment 
when  dusk  finally  faded  into  night! 

The  tower  bells  of  the  Cloth  Hall  chimed  the  sixth  hour: 
outside  on  the  Grand'  Place  all  had  been  still  save  for  the 
occasional  footstep  of  a  passer-by  or  the  measured  tramp 
of  a  company  of  halberdiers  on  duty. 

And  now  suddenly  that  peace  was  broken,  the  quietude 
of  the  town  disturbed  by  piercing  woman's  shrieks,  fol- 
lowed by  shouts  and  curses  uttered  loudly  by  a  rough, 
masculine  voice. 

Mark  instinctively  jumped  to  his  feet;  the  cries  had  be- 
come pitiable  and  were  multiplied  by  others  which  seemed 


ENEMIES 

to  come  from  children's  throats,  and  the  shouts  and  curses 
became  more  peremptory  and  more  rough. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  Lenora,  not  a  little  frightened. 

"Oh!  the  usual  thing,"  replied  Mark  hastily,  "a  woman 
insulted  in  the  streets,  vain  protests,  rough  usage,  outrage 
and  probably  murder.  We  are  used  to  such  incidents  in 
Flanders,"  he  added  quietly. 

Already  he  was  half  way  across  the  tapperij. 

"You  are  going?"  she  queried  anxiously,  "whither?" 

"Out  into  the  street,"  he  said,  "can  you  not  hear  that 
a  woman  is  in  distress  ?" 

"But  what  can  you  do?"  she  urged,  "the  soldiers  are 
there  .  .  .  you  cannot  interfere  .  .  .  you,  a  Nether- 
lander. 

"Yes!  I,  a  Netherlander,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  Flemish 
woman  who  is  calling  for  help  now." 

He  turned  to  go,  and  she — with  the  same  instinct  that 
was  moving  him — rose  too  and  followed  him : — the  same 
instinct  of  protection:  his — the  man's  for  the  woman  who 
was  in  distress :  hers — the  woman's  for  the  man  who  would 
pit  his  strength  alone  against  superior  numbers.  She  over- 
took him  just  as  he  reached  the  threshold  of  the  tapperij. 
Beyond  it  was  only  the  porch,  the  door  of  which  stood 
wide  open,  and  beyond  that  the  Grand'  Place;  the  shrieks 
and  the  ever-increasing  noise  of  a  scuffle  came  from  an 
adjacent  street  close  by. 

"You  must  not  go,  Messire,"  she  said  insistently,  as  with 
both  hands  she  clung  to  his  arms,  "what  can  you  do  ?  there 
is  a  crowd  there  .  .  .  and  the  soldiers.  ..." 

He  smiled  and  tried  very  gently  to  disengage  his  arm 
from  her  clinging,  insistent  grasp. 

"It  will  not  be  the  first  time,  Madonna,"  he  said  with  a 
light  laugh,  "that  I  have  had  a  scuffle  with  a  posse  of  sol- 


212  LEATHERFACE 

diery  .  .  .  they  sometimes  mean  no  harm,"  he  added  reas- 
suringly seeing  the  look  of  anxious  terror  in  her  eyes, 
"many  a  time  has  a  scuffle  ended  in  jollity  at  a  few  words 
of  common  sense." 

"Yes,  yes,  in  Ghent,"  she  urged,  "where  you  are  known. 
But  here!  .  .  .  where  no  one  knows  you  .  .  .  spies  of 
the  Inquisition  might  be  about  ...  if  they  see  you  inter- 
fering in  favour  of  a  heretic  or  a  rebel  ...  or  ...  Oh! 
men  have  been  hanged  and  burned  for  lesser  crimes  than 
that." 

"Ah!"  he  said  looking  down  with  a  whimsical  smile 
into  her  flushed  and  eager  face,  "that  is  part  of  the  benevo- 
lent rule  which  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King  exercises 
over  the  Low  Countries!" 

Then  seeing  that  at  his  flippant  words — through  which 
there  rang  a  note  of  intense  bitterness — her  eyes  had  sud- 
denly filled  with  tears,  he  murmured  tenderly : 

"God  bless  you,  Madonna,  for  your  sweet  thoughts  of 
me!  I  pray  you  let  me  go!  I'll  come  back  soon,"  he 
added  while  a  look  of  triumph  flashed  up  in  his  eyes,  "never 
fear!" 

He  ran  out  quickly  into  the  street. 

She  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  second:  the  next  she  had 
followed  him,  without  thought  that  she  had  neither  hood 
nor  mantle,  nor  that  the  unseemliness  of  her  conduct  would 
surely  have  shocked  all  the  great  ladies  of  Spain. 


IV 


The  Grand'  Place  was  deserted  and  dark,  only  here  and 
there  in  the  windows  of  the  Cloth  Hall  there  was  a  glim- 
mer of  light.  For  a  moment  Lenora  paused  in  the  porch 


ENEMIES  213 

peering  out  into  the  gloom,  trying  to  trace  whence  came 
the  noise  of  the  scuffle,  for  Mark  had  already  disappeared : 
then  she  ran  out  swiftly,  turning  to  her  right  from  the 
porch  till  she  reached  the  corner  of  a  narrow  street.  Here 
an  oil  lamp  fixed  into  a  wall  by  an  iron  bracket  threw  a 
dim  circle  of  light,  beyond  which  the  shadows  appeared 
almost  impenetrable.  It  was  somewhere  in  amongst  those 
shadows  that  a  melee  between  shouting  soldiers  and  shriek- 
ing women  was  taking  place. 

Up  to  this  moment  Lenora  had  never  stopped  to  reflect 
as  to  what  she  meant  or  wanted  to  do.  Blind  instinct  had 
driven  her  in  the  wake  of  Mark,  feeling  that  he  was  in 
danger — as  indeed  he  was :  a  Netherlander  these  days  was 
in  himself  always  an  object  of  suspicion,  and  interference 
with  Spanish  soldiery  under  any  circumstances  was  indeed 
likely  to  lead  him  into  very  grave  trouble.  If  the  soldiers 
were  arresting  or  merely  molesting  a  heretic  or  a  rebel, 
any  one  who  interfered  with  them  would  at  once  fall  under 
the  searching  eye  of  the  Inquisition — and  there  was  never 
a  lack  of  spies  on  such  occasions:  the  seven  stiver  people — 
who  for  that  paltry  daily  sum  spent  their  lives  in  reporting 
treason,  listening  for  it  in  every  tavern,  and  in  every  back 
street  of  every  city. 

But  now  that  she  stood  here  at  the  street  corner,  hear- 
ing the  ever-increasing  noise  of  the  scuffle  close  by,  hearing 
the  shouts,  the  cries,  the  pitiable  appeals  followed  by  per- 
emptory commands,  she  realised  how  miserably  impotent 
and  helpless  she  was.  Yet  she  could  hear  Mark's  voice — 
speaking  now  in  Spanish  and  now  in  Flemish,  as  he  tried — 
obviously — to  understand  the  situation  and  to  plead  for 
those  who  were  in  distress.  At  first  his  voice  had  sounded 
rough  and  peremptory :  indeed  Lenora  could  not  help  but 
marvel  at  its  commanding  quality,  then  gradually  it  became 


LEATHERFACE 

cheerful,  and  its  tone  turned  to  one  of  merry  banter.  The 
incident  indeed  was  evidently  one  of  those  which,  alas! 
were  so  usual  in  the  cities  and  villages  of  the  Low  Countries 
these  days:  two  young  women  coming  home  down  the 
dark,  back  streets  from  some  farm  or  silk-weaving  shop 
where  they  had  been  at  work,  and  a  posse  of  half -drunken 
soldiers  to  whom  a  Flemish  peasant  was  an  acknowledged 
prey  for  ribald  sport. 

The  women  had  resisted  and  tried  to  flee:  they  were 
pursued  and  rough  horse-play  had  ensued:  then  they  had 
screamed  and  the  men  had  sworn,  and  presently  other 
women  and  children  joined  in  the  scuffle  while  those  who 
were  wise  stayed  quietly  indoors. 

Horse-play  had  become  a  matter  of  blows  followed  by 
threats  of  arrest  and  dark  hints  at  heresy,  rebellion  and 
the  Inquisition:  the  melee  was  at  its  height  when  Mark 
interfered.  Several  blows  were  still  exchanged  after  that, 
and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  swearing  and  mutual  objurga- 
tion. Lenora,  listening,  wondered  with  what  skill  Mark 
gradually  made  those  curses  turn  to  facetious  remarks — ill- 
natured  at  first  and  uncouth — then  more  light-hearted,  and 
finally  grudgingly  pleasant.  Within  five  minutes  the  tumult 
began  to  subside :  Lenora  could  hear  the  women  weeping 
and  the  soldiers  laughing  quite  good-humouredly.  How 
it  had  all  been  done  she  did  not  know :  presently  from  the 
tramping  of  feet  she  gathered  that  the  melee  had  broken 
up:  a  woman's  voice  said  loudly:  "Gott  vergelte!"  and 
Lenora  thought  that  indeed  God  would  repay  the  light- 
hearted  man  of  the  world  who  had  by  sheer  good-humour 
and  compelling  personality  turned  a  drama  into  pleasing 
farce. 

"Well,  friend !"  she  heard  a  man's  voice  saying  in  Span- 
ish, "I  don't  know  who  you  are,  but  a  right  good  fellow; 


ENEMIES  215 

an  I'm  not  mistaken.  Perhaps  it  was  wisest  to  leave  those 
women  alone." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  friend,"  quoth  Mark  gaily,  "the  com- 
mandant oft  makes  a  to-do  about  street-brawling,  and  you 
might  have  been  blamed  and  got  two  days'  guard-room 
arrest  just  for  kissing  a  pair  of  Flemish  wenches.  The 
game  was  not  worth  the  candle.  Even  the  devil  would  have 
no  profit  in  it." 

"Well  said,  mate,"  retorted  the  other  lustily,  "come  and 
have  a  mug  of  ale  on  it  with  me  and  my  men  at  the  'Duke's 
Head'  down  yonder." 

"Thank  you,  friend,  but  I  put  up  at  the  'Merry  Beggars' 
and  must  return  thither  now.  A  little  later  perhaps." 

"At  your  service,  comrade." 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  Lenora  made  up  her 
mind — since  all  tumult  and  all  danger  had  passed — to  go 
back  to  that  ingle-nook  beside  the  fire  and  there  to  wait 
till  Mark  returned  ...  to  wait  so  that  she  might  resume 
with  him  that  conversation  of  awhile  ago  which  had  inter- 
ested her  so  much.  But  on  the  point  of  turning  she  halted. 
Three  words — spoken  by  one  of  the  soldiers — had  come  to 
her  out  of  the  gloom,  and  caused  her  heart  to  stop  its 
beating. 

"You  are  hurt  ?"  one  man  had  said — in  a  kind,  gruff  way 
—evidently  in  deep  concern. 

"No!  no?  it's  nothing,"  Mark  replied,  "a  small  scratch 
.  .  .  in  the  scuffle  just  now.  ..." 

"But  you  are  bleeding.  ..." 

"And  if  I  am,  friend,  it  won't  be  the  first  time  in  my  life. 
I  tell  you  it's  nothing,"  added  Mark  with  obvious  impa- 
tience. "Good-night !" 

"Good-night!"  came  in  chorus  from  the  men. 


216  LEATHERFACE 


The  measured  tramp  of  booted  feet  slowly  dying  away 
in  the  distance  down  the  narrow  street,  told  Lenora  that 
at  last  the  men  had  gone. 

But  Mark  was  hurt  and  she  stood  waiting  at  the  street 
corner  for  she  heard  his  step  coming  slowly  toward  her. 

He  was  hurt  and  had  made  light  of  it,  but  one  of  the 
soldiers  had  remarked  that  he  was  bleeding  and  she  waited 
now  for  him,  dreading  yet  vaguely  hoping  that  he  was 
really  wounded — oh!  only  slightly! — but  still  wounded  so 
that  she  might  wait  on  him. 

So  strange  is  a  woman's  heart  when  first  it  wakes  from 
the  dreams,  the  unrealities,  the  fairy-worlds  of  childhood! 
With  beating  heart  Lenora  listened  to  that  slowly-advanc- 
ing footstep — how  slow  it  seemed!  as  if  it  had  lost  that 
elasticity  which  but  a  few  moments  ago  had  carried  Mark 
bounding  down  this  same  street.  Now  it  dragged  and 
finally  came  to  a  halt,  just  as  Mark's  figure  emerged  into 
the  shaft  of  light  thrown  along  the  wall  by  the  street  lamp 
close  to  which  Lenora  was  standing. 

She  smothered  a  little  cry  and  ran  forward  to  meet  him, 
for  she  had  seen  his  figure  sway,  and  halt,  then  lean  heavily 
against  the  wall. 

"You  are  hurt!"  she  exclaimed,  even  before  she  reached 
him. 

At  sound  of  her  voice,  he  pulled  himself  together,  and 
in  a  moment  had  straightened  out  his  shoulders  and  was 
walking  quite  steadily  toward  her. 

"Madonna!"  he  cried  in  astonishment,  "what  are  you 
doing  here?" 

"Oh!  I  .    .    .  I  .    .    ."  she  murmured,  a  little  ashamed 


ENEMIES  217 

now  that  she  met  his  pleasant,  grey  eyes  fixed  so  kindly 
upon  her,  "I  heard  the  noise  ...  I  became  anxious.  ..." 

"It  was  only  a  street-brawl,"  he  said,  "not  fit  for  you  to 
witness." 

Even  now,  though  he  spoke  quite  firmly,  his  voice 
sounded  weary  and  weak. 

"You  are  hurt!"  she  reiterated. 

"Hurt?  No!"  He  laughed,  but  the  laughter  died  on 
his  lips:  he  had  to  steady  himself  against  the  wall,  for  a 
sudden  dizziness  had  seized  him. 

"I  pray  you  take  my  arm,"  she  insisted.  "Can  you 
walk  as  far  as  the  tavern?" 

"Indeed  I  can,"  he  retorted,  "on  my  honour  'tis  a  mere 
scratch." 

"An  you'll  not  take  my  arm,"  she  said  peremptorily, 
"I'll  call  for  help." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  he  exclaimed  gaily.  "I  should  be 
laughed  at  for  a  malingerer.  Shall  we  return  to  the  tav- 
ern, Madonna?  and  will  you  not  take  mine  arm?" 

He  held  his  right  arm  out  to  her,  but  as  he  did  so  she 
noticed  that  he  kept  the  other  behind  his  back. 

She  did  take  his  arm,  however.  It  was  obviously  best — 
since  he  was  more  severely  hurt  than  he  cared  to  admit — 
to  go  at  once  back  to  the  tavern,  and  dress  the  wound 
there  with  water  and  clean  linen. 

They  walked  in  silence  side  by  side.  It  was  only  a  mat- 
ter of  an  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  after  a  very  few  mo- 
ments they  reached  the  porch  of  the  "Merry  Beggars,"  and 
as  the  buxom  hostess  was  standing  there,  vaguely  wonder- 
ing what  had  happened  to  her  guests,  Lenora  at  once  des- 
patched her  off  for  a  basin  of  clean  warm  water  and  her 
very  softest  linen  towels. 

Then  she  went  into  the  tapperij,  and  Mark  followed  her. 


218  LEATHERFACE 

The  room  was  as  peaceful,  as  deserted  as  it  had  been 
awhile  ago.  The  host  himself  had  in  the  interval  made 
up  the  fire,  and  it  was  blazing  brightly,  lighting  up  the  little 
ingle-nook,  with  the  high-backed  chair  wherein  Lenora 
had  sat  and  the  low  one  drawn  so  close  to  it. 

Turning  to  Mark,  she  noticed  that  he  still  kept  his  left 
arm  resolutely  behind  his  back. 

"Our  good  hostess  won't  be  long  with  the  water,"  she 
said,  "in  the  meanwhile,  I  pray  you  let  me  tend  to  your 
wound." 

"It  was  nothing,  Madonna,  I  entreat  you,"  he  said  with 
marked  impatience,  "a  blow  from  a  halberd  caught  me  on 
the  arm.  I  scarcely  feel  it  now." 

"Let  me  see,"  she  commanded. 

Then  as  he  made  no  movement  to  obey,  she — half  cry- 
ing with  anxiety,  and  half -laughing  with  excitement — ran 
swiftly  round  him,  and  in  an  instant  she  had  hold,  of  his 
left  hand,  and  with  gentle  pressure  compelled  him  to  yield 
it  to  her.  He  tried  to  struggle,  but  the  pain  in  his  arm 
rendered  it  somewhat  helpless. 

"I  insist !"  she  said  gently,  and  clung  to  his  hand  support- 
ing the  fore-arm  as  she  did  so. 

"Your"  sleeve  is  covered  with  blood !"  she  exclaimed. 

"It  is  nothing!"  he  persisted  obstinately. 

But  for  the  moment  she  was  the  stronger  of  the  two. 
Short  of  doing  her  violence  he  could  not  prevent  her  from 
holding  his  hand  with  one  of  hers,  and  with  the  other  un- 
doing the  buttons  at  his  wrist ;  then  with  utmost  gentleness 
she  detached  the  shirt  which  was  sticking  to  a  deep,  gaping 
wound,  that  stretched  from  the  wrist  right  up  to  the  elbow. 

"Oh!  but  this  is  terrible!"  she  cried.  "No  blow  from  a 
halberd  could  have  inflicted  such  a  wound !  .  .  .  Oh !  why 
does  not  that  woman  hurry?"  she  added,  whilst  tears  of 


ENEMIES  219 

vexation  and  impatience  rose  to  her  eyes.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  hand  wherewith  she  could  staunch  the  wound,  even 
momentarily — every  second  was  precious !  .  .  . 

"I  have  a  knowledge  of  such  matters,"  she  said  gently. 
"At  the  convent  we  tended  on  many  wounded  soldiers, 
when  they  came  to  us  hurt  from  the  wars.  This  is  no  fresh 
wound,  Messire,"  she  added  slowly,  "but  an  old  and  very 
severe  one,  dealt  not  so  very  long  ago  .  .  .  by  a  dagger 
probably,  which  tore  the  flesh  and  muscle  right  deeply  to 
the  bone  ...  it  had  not  healed  completely  .  .  .  the  blow 
from  the  halberd  caused  it  to  reopen  .  .  .  and  ..." 

But  the  next  words  remained  frozen  on  her  lips:  even 
whilst  she  spoke  she  had  gradually  felt  a  deathlike  feeling 
— like  an  icy  hand  gripping  her  heart  and  tearing  at  its 
strings.  An  awful  dizziness  seized  her.  She  looked  up — 
still  holding  Mark's  hand — and  gazed  straight  into  his  face. 
He  too  was  as  pale  as  the  dead  ashes  in  the  grate — his 
whole  face  had  become  wax-like  in  its  rigidity,  only  his  eyes 
remained  alive  and  glowing,  fixed  into  her  own  now  with  a 
look  which  held  a  world  of  emotion  in  its  depths :  passion- 
ate tenderness  and  mute  appeal,  an  avowal  and  a  yearning 
and  with  it  all  an  infinity  of  despair. 

And  she,  thus  looking  into  that  face  which  only  lived 
through  the  eyes,  saw  all  around  her  the  narrow  white- 
washed walls  of  the  tapperij  fading  away  into  darkness. 
In  their  stead  she  saw  a  narrow  passage,  dark  and  gloomy, 
and  in  its  remotest  and  darkest  corner  a  figure  cowered, 
clad  in  dark  clothes  from  head  to  foot  and  wearing  a 
mask  of  leather  upon  its  face — the  assassin  waiting  for  his 
prey.  And  she  saw  Ramon — handsome,  light-hearted,  deb- 
onnaire  Ramon — her  kinsman  and  her  lover,  standing  un- 
suspecting by.  She  saw  it  all — the  picture  as  her  father 
had  painted  it  for  her  edification.  The  assassin  lying  in 


220  LEATHERFACE 

wait — Ramon  unsuspecting.  She  saw  the  murder  com* 
mitted  there  in  the  dark,  the  stealthy,  surreptitious  blow. 
She  saw  Ramon  totter  and  fall — but  before  falling  turn  on 
the  dastardly  murderer,  and  with  hand  already  half  para- 
lysed by  oncoming  death,  deal  him  a  deep  and  gashing 
wound  ...  in  the  left  fore-arm  .  .  .  with  his  dagger 
which  tore  flesh  and  muscle  between  elbow  and  wrist  right 
through  to  the  bone. 

And  while  she  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  yet  saw 
nothing  but  the  vision  of  that  awful  deed,  her  lips  mur- 
mured automatically  the  four  accusing  words : 

"Then  it  was  you !" 

He  had  not  for  one  second  lost  his  hold  upon  himself, 
since  that  awful  moment  when  he  realised  that  she  guessed. 
He  had  no  idea  that  don  Ramon,  at  the  point  of  death,  had 
spoken  of  the  wound  which  he  had  inflicted  on  the  man 
who  had  meted  out  summary  justice  to  him  for  his  crimes. 
But  now  he  knew  that  the  secret  which  he  would  have 
buried  with  him  in  a  bottomless  grave  was  known  to  her — 
to  the  woman  whom  he  had  learned  to  love  with  his  whole 
soul.  She  knew  now,  and  henceforth  they  must  be  not 
only  strangers  but  bitter  enemies.  Nothing — not  even  per- 
haps his  own  death — would  ever  wipe  away  the  sense  of 
utter  abhorrence  wherewith  she  regarded  him  now.  He 
took  his  last  look  of  her  as  one  does  of  one  infinitely  dear, 
who  sinks  into  the  arms  of  Death. 

He  drank  in  every  line  of  her  exquisite  face,  the  child- 
like contour  of  chin  and  throat,  her  alabaster-like  skin,  the 
exquisite  mouth  which  he  was  destined  now  never  to  touch 
with  his  yearning  lips.  In  this  supreme  moment,  his  love 
for  her — only  just  in  its  infancy — rose  to  its  full  efful- 
gence ;  he  knew  now  that  he  worshipped  her,  and  knew  that 


ENEMIES 

never  while  the  shadow  of  her  dead  kinsman  stood  between 
them  would  he  hold  her  in  his  arms. 

"Then  it  was  you !"  she  murmured  again,  and  with  those 
fateful  words  pronounced  his  condemnation  and  her  own 
indomitable  hate. 

"Madonna,"  he  entreated,  speaking  with  the  infinite  ten- 
derness and  pity  which  filled  his  heart,  "will  you  deign  to 
listen,  if  I  try  to  plead  mine  own  cause?" 

But  no  look  of  softness  came  into  her  eyes:  they  were 
glowing  and  dry  and  unseeing:  she  did  not  see  him — not 
Mark,  her  husband  as  he  stood  there  now  before  her — she 
saw  him  cowering  in  a  dark  corner,  clad  in  sombre  clothes 
and  wearing  a  leather  mask — she  saw  him  with  an  assassin's 
dagger  in  his  hand  and  she  saw  Ramon  lying  dead  at  his 
feet. 

"Then  it  was  you!"  she  said  for  the  third  time. 

And  he  bent  his  head  in  mute  avowal. 

For  a  few  seconds  longer  she  stood  there,  rigid  and 
silent:  slowly  her  fingers  opened  and  his  hand  which  she 
had  held  dropped  away  to  his  side.  A  shudder  went  right 
through  her,  she  tottered  and  nearly  fell,  only  saving  her- 
self by  holding  on  to  the  corner  of  the  table.  He  made  a 
movement  as  if  he  would  try  and  support  her,  as  if  he 
would  put  his  arms  around  her  and  pillow  her  against 
his  breast,  but  with  an  exclamation  of  supreme  loathing, 
she  drew  away  from  him,  and  with  a  pitiable  cry  half  of 
hatred  and  wholly  of  misery,  she  turned  and  fled  from  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XI 

UTTER  LONELINESS 


WHAT  happened  directly  after  that,  Lenora  did  not 
know.  Consciousness  mercifully  left  her,  and  when  she 
woke  once  more  she  found  herself  sitting  in  a  small  room 
which  smelt  of  lavender  and  warm  linen,  beside  a  fire 
which  burned  low  in  a  wide-open  hearth. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  enquiringly  around  her. 
The  room  was  dark — only  faintly  lighted  by  the  lamp 
which  hung  from  a  beam  in  the  ceiling.  A  young  girl 
was  busy  in  a  corner  of  the  room  bending  over  an  ironing 
board. 

"Does  the  noble  lady  feel  better?"  she  asked  kindly  but 
with  all  the  deference  which  those  of  the  subject  race  were 
expected  to  show  to  their  superiors. 

She  spoke  in  broken  French — most  women  and  men  who 
served  in  the  inns  and  taverns  in  the  cities  of  the  Low 
Countries  were  obliged  to  know  some  other  language  be- 
sides their  own,  seeing  that  the  tapperijen  were  frequented 
by  Spanish,  French  and  German  soldiery. 

"I  am  quite  well,  I  thank  thee,"  replied  Lenora  gently, 
"but  wilt  thou  tell  me  where  I  am  and  how  I  came  to  be 
sitting  here  when  ..." 

She  paused ;  for  with  a  rush  the  recollection  of  the  past 
terrible  moments  came  sweeping  back  upon  her,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  consciousness  would  flee  from  her  once  again, 

222 


UTTER  LONELINESS  223 

"The  noble  lady  must  have  felt  dizzy,"  said  the  girl 
quietly.  "Aunt  sent  me  in  with  the  warm  water  for  the 
noble  seigneur's  wound,  and  I  saw  the  noble  lady  just  run- 
ning out  of  the  tapperij  to  the  porch  and  then  fall — in  a 
swoon.  I  was  frightened,  but  the  noble  seigneur  ordered 
me  quickly  to  tie  a  towel  around  his  wounded  arm  and 
then  he  carried  the  noble  lady  up  here  to  a  nice  warm  room, 
where  he  told  me  that  mayhap  she  should  deign  to  pass  the 
night.  Oh!  the  noble  seigneur  is  grievously  wounded, 
he  .  .  ." 

"Silence,  girl,"  cried  Lenora  suddenly,  for  indeed  with 
every  word  the  child  seemed  to  be  touching  an  aching 
place  in  her  heart.  "No,  no,"  she  added  more  gently,  see- 
ing that  the  girl,  abashed  and  not  a  little  frightened,  had 
gone  back  in  silence  to  her  ironing-board,  "I  did  not  mean 
to  be  unkind  .  .  .  but  ...  as  thou  seest,  I  am  not  well. 
Come!  tell  me  what  happened  after  .  .  .  after  the  noble 
seigneur  carried  me  up  here." 

"Aunt  waited  on  him,  noble  lady,"  said  the  girl,  "for 
the  wound  in  his  arm  bled  grievously  .  .  .  but  he  was  im- 
patient and  soon  ordered  her  to  leave  him  alone  .  .  .  then 
I  came  up  here,  and  did  all  I  could  to  bring  the  noble  lady 
round.  ...  I  tried  vinegar  and  burned  feathers  under  the 
noble  lady's  nose  .  .  .  but  I  was  not  frightened  ...  I 
knew  the  noble  lady  would  revive  .  .  .  and  the  leech  lives 
but  two  doors  off.  .  .  .  We  were  all  of  us  anxious  about 
the  noble  seigneur  .  .  .  because  of  his  wound  .  .  .  and 
he  looked  so  pale  and  haggard  ...  so  aunt  and  I  soon 
ran  down  to  him  again.  .  .  .  We  found  him  sitting  by  the 
table  .  .  .  just  sealing  down  a  letter  which  he  had  been 
writing.  'I  am  going,  mevrouw,'  he  says  to  aunt  quite 
curtly.  'Take  thine  orders  from  the  noble  lady.  She  will 
tell  thee  her  own  wishes.'  He  gave  her  some  money  and 


224  LEATHERFACE 

a  letter  which  he  ordered  her  to  give  to  the  noble  lady  as 
soon  as  she  deigned  to  wake.  And  then  he  took  his  hat 
and  mantle  and  went  out  by  the  porch  .  .  .  just  like  that 
...  all  alone  .  .  .  into  the  darkness  .  .  .  whither  he 
did  not  deign  to  say.  .  .  .  We  are  just  poor  people  and 
we  did  not  dare  to  ask,  but  the  wind  has  sprung  up  and  it 
hath  begun  to  rain  .  .  .  the  night  will  be  rough  .  .  .  and 
the  noble  seigneur  is  not  fit  to  hold  a  horse  with  his  arm  in 
such  a  grievous  state." 

"Where  is  the  letter?"  asked  Lenora  curtly. 

From  the  pocket  of  her  apron  the  girl  produced  a  letter 
folded  into  four  and  sealed  down  with  wax  which  she 
handed  to  the  noble  Spanish  lady  with  a  respectful  curtsey. 

"Aunt  told  me  to  give  it  to  the  noble  lady,"  she  said, 
"as  soon  as  she  deigned  to  wake." 

"Is  thine  aunt  the  hostess  of  this  inn?"  queried  Lenora. 
She  was  fingering  the  letter,  feeling  a  curious  hesitancy 
and  reluctance  to  read  its  contents,  and  asked  a  few  idle 
questions  whilst  she  made  an  effort  to  control  her  nerves. 

"Yes!  at  the  noble  lady's  service,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Art  of  this  city,  then?" 

"No,  so  please  you.    I  come  from  Ghent." 

"From  Ghent?    What  is  thy  name,  then?" 

"Crete,  so  please  the  noble  lady,"  whispered  the  girl. 

Then,  as  the  noble  lady  said  nothing  more,  but  sat  just 
quite  still  with  the  unopened  letter  in  her  hand,  Crete  went 
back  to  her  ironing-board.  Lenora  watched  her  mechanical 
movements  for  awhile — a  mist  was  before  her  eyes,  and  she 
could  not  see  very  clearly,  but  somehow  she  liked  the  look 
of  Crete — Crete  who  was  from  Ghent — whom  she  would 
have  liked  to  question  further,  only  that  when  she  tried  to 
speak,  the  words  seemed  to  get  choked  in  her  throat. 

All  of  a  sudden,  she  broke  the  seal  upon  the  letter  and 


UTTER  LONELINESS  225 

swept  away  the  mist  before  her  eyes  with  an  impatient 
movement  of  the  hand. 

"Madonna,"  he  had  written,  "I  would  not  leave  You 
thus  all  alone  in  this  ftrange  place,  to  which  an  act  of  folly 
on  My  part  did  bring-  You,  but  that  I  read  My  difmifsal  in 
Your  eyes.  The  fight  of  me  is  hateful  to  You — alas!  this 
I  can  underftand!  By  the  time  You  read  this,  I  fhall  be 
far  away.  But  anon  upon  the  road  I  fhall  meet  the  ox- 
wagon  with  Your  effects  and  Your  ferving- woman ;  it 
cannot  be  far  from  here,  as  the  driver  had  orders  to  put 
up  in  this  town  for  the  night.  I  will  fpeed  him  on  as  faft 
as  He  can,  and  then  to-morrow  You  can  continue  Your 
journey  in  peace,  for  the  driver  will  arrange  for  an  efcort 
to  accompany  You  as  far  as  Brufsels.  He  will  have  His 
orders.  In  the  meanwhile  I  have  ventured  to  flip  a  sealed 
packet  containing  money  into  the  pocket  of  Your  gown: 
(it  was  done  while  you  lay  unconfcious  in  My  arms.)  I 
pray  You  do  not  f cruple  to  take  it.  The  money  is  Yours : 
a  part  of  Your  dowry,  an  account  of  which  My  Father 
will  render  unto  Yours  as  foon  as  may  be.  In  the  mean- 
while You  are  free  to  come  and  go  or  ftay  in  this  town, 
juft  as  You  were  in  Brufsels  or  in  Ghent.  Your  pafs  and 
permit  as  well  as  Mine  were  in  perfect  order;  the  difpute 
with  the  Provoft  at  the  gate,  the  difficulty  about  the  per- 
mits, was  but  a  rufe  on  My  part  fo  that  I  might  fpend  a 
time  in  Your  company,  under  the  pretence  that  We  were 
not  allowed  to  continue  Our  journey  to  Brufsels.  To  afk 
Your  forgivenefs  for  this  as  well  as  for  other  graver  mat- 
ters were  ufelefs,  I  know.  To  afk  You  to  erafe  the  events 
of  the  paft  two  weeks  from  Your  memory  were  perhaps 
an  infult.  As  for  Me  I  fhall  look  upon  it  as  a  f  acred  duty 
never  to  offend  You  with  My  pre fence  as  long  as  I  live. 
But  I  lay  Mine  undying  homage  at  Your  feet. 

"MARK  VAN  RYCKE." 

The  letter  dropped  into  her  lap,  for  awhile  she  sat,  star- 
ing straight  into  the  fire. 


226  LEATHERFACE 

The  girl  was  putting  away  her  ironing-board  and  folding 
away  the  linen,  ranging  it  carefully  in  the  press.  Having 
made  the  room  quite  tidy,  she  asked  timidly : 

"Will  the  noble  lady  deign  to  take  supper?" 

But  she  had  to  repeat  her  question  three  times  at  intervals 
before  Lenora  gave  answer. 

"What?"  she  said  vaguely,  like  one  waking  from  a 
dream.  "Yes! — No! — What  didst  say,  girl?" 

"Will  the  noble  lady  deign  to  take  supper?" 

"Bring  me  some  milk  and  bread,"  replied  Lenora,  "and 
.  .  .  can  I  sleep  here  to-night  ?" 

"In  this  bed,"  said  the  girl :  and  she  pointed  to  the  recess 
in  the  wall,  where  snow-white  sheets  and  pillows  seemed 
literally  to  invite  repose,  "if  the  noble  lady  will  deign  to 
be  satisfied." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  rest  here,"  said  Lenora  with  a  woe- 
begone little  sigh,  "for  I  am  very  tired.  Anon  a  wagon 
will  be  here  with  my  effects  and  my  serving  woman.  Send 
her  to  me  directly  she  arrives." 

Her  voice  was  absolutely  toneless  and  dull:  she  spoke 
like  one  who  is  infinitely  weary,  or  in  utter  hopelessness : 
but  the  girl,  whose  kind  heart  ached  for  the  beautiful  lady, 
did  not  dare  to  offer  comfort.  She  prepared  to  leave  the 
room  in  order  to  fetch  the  frugal  supper.  Lenora  turned 
her  head  once  more  toward  the  fire :  her  eyes  caught  sight 
of  the  letter  which  still  lay  in  her  lap.  With  a  sudden 
fierce  gesture  she  picked  it  up,  crushed  it  between  her 
fingers  and  threw  it  into  the  flames. 


II 

A  few  minutes  later  Crete  came  back  carrying  a  tray 
with  fine  wheaten  bread,  a  jar  of  milk,  and  some  fresh 


UTTER  LONELINESS  227 

cheese,  her  round  young  face  beaming  with  benevolence 
and  compassion. 

"If  the  noble  lady  will  deign  to  eat,"  she  said,  as  she 
put  the  tray  down  upon  the  table,  "the  noble  lady  will  feel 
less  weary  .  .  .  and  then,  as  soon  as  the  ox-wagon  arrives 
with  the  serving  woman,  the  noble  lady  could  go  to  bed." 

"Wait  one  moment,"  said  Lenora,  as  the  girl  once  more 
prepared  to  go,  "I  want  a  courier — now  at  once — to  take 
an  urgent  message  as  far  as  Brussels.  Can  you  find  me 
one?" 

"There  are  four  butchers  in  the  town,  noble  lady,  who 
deliver  all  the  messages  for  three  or  four  leagues  round. 
Uncle  can  go  and  see  if  one  of  them  is  inclined  to  go.  .  .  . 
But  the  night  is  very  rough.  ..." 

"I  will  give  the  man  who  will  take  my  message  to  Brus- 
sels this  night  five  golden  ducats,"  said  Lenora  per- 
emptorily. 

Crete  opened  her  eyes  wide  with  astonishment. 

"Five  golden  ducats!"  she  exclaimed  ecstatically.  Qf 
a  truth  the  poor  trading  folk  of  Dendermonde  had  never 
seen  quite  so  much  money  all  at  once  and  in  the  same  hand. 

"I  doubt  not  but  that  Michel  Daens,  the  butcher,  at  the 
sign  of  the  'Calf's  Head'  in  the  Meerhem,  will  be  glad  to 
earn  the  money.  And  he  hath  a  very  strong  horse." 

"Then  tell  your  uncle,  child,  to  go  at  once  to  him :  and 
to  give  him  this  letter,  which  he  is  to  deliver  without  fail 
before  ten  o'clock  this  night."  From  the  bosom  of  her 
gown  she  drew  the  letter  which  she  had  written  during 
the  previous  night,  and  handed  it  to  the  young  girl. 

"The  letter,"  she  added  slowly,  "is  for  Messire  don  Juan 
de  Vargas,  chief  of  the  Council  of  His  Highness  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor. He  lodges  in  Brussels  at  the  sign  of  the 
'Blue  Firmament,'  over  against  the  Broodhuis.  Let  your 


228  LEATHERFACE 

uncle  explain  to  Michel  Daens,  the  butcher,  that  if  this  letter 
is  not  delivered  before  ten  o'clock  this  evening,  he  will  be 
made  to  suffer  the  severe  penalty  imposed  by  the  law  on 
all  those  who  neglect  to  do  their  duty  to  the  State.  Take 
the  letter,  child !" 

Indeed,  this  last  peremptory  order  was  necessary,  for 
Crete,  hearing  to  whom  the  letter  was  addressed,  hardly 
dared  to  touch  it.  Indeed  there  would  be  no  fear  that 
Michel  Daens  would  fail  to  execute  the  noble  lady's  com- 
mands with  punctuality  and  utmost  speed.  The  name  of 
don  Juan  de  Vargas  was  one  that  would  make  any  man  fly 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  if  ordered  so  to  do.  A  message 
or  letter  to  or  from  him  would  of  a  surety  be  delivered 
punctually,  even  if  the  heavens  were  on  the  point  of  falling 
or  the  earth  about  to  open. 

To  Crete  the  name  meant  something  more  than  that :  it 
was  the  dreaded  symbol  of  an  awful  reality — a  reality  which 
for  her  had  meant  the  terrors  of  that  awful  night,  when 
the  Spanish  officer  threatened  and  insulted  her  and  Katrine, 
when  death  or  outrage  stared  them  both  in  the  face,  and 
the  awful  catastrophe  was  only  averted  by  the  interference 
of  the  mysterious  Leatherface. 

So  she  took  the  letter  which  was  addressed  to  one  who 
was  even  greater,  even  more  to  be  feared  than  the  Spanish 
officer ;  she  took  it  with  a  trembling  hand  as  she  would  some 
sacred  symbol:  then  she  curtseyed  and  went  out  of  the 
room. 

Lenora  rose  and  followed  her  into  the  passage,  where 
she  stood  listening  until  she  heard  Crete  calling  to  her  uncle 
and  aunt.  The  three  of  them  then  spoke  together  in  Flem- 
ish which  Lenora  hardly  understood;  but  she  caught  the 
names  Michel  Daens  and  Messire  don  Juan  de  Vargas,  and 
then  the  words  spoken  very  emphatically  by  Crete:  "Be- 


UTTER  LONELINESS  229 

fore  ten  o'clock  this  night."     Then  she  went  back  to  her 
room,  and  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her. 


in 


So,  then,  the  die  was  cast.  There  was  an  end  to  all  the 
irresolution,  the  heart-achings,  the  tearing  of  soul  and 
nerves  upon  the  rack  of  doubt  and  indecision.  Hopeless 
misery  and  deathly  bitterness  filled  Lenora's  heart  now. 

She  had  been  fooled  and  deceived !  Fooled  by  soft  words 
and  cajoling  ways,  by  lies  and  treachery :  and  she  had  very 
nearly  succumbed  to  the  monstrous  deceit. 

Fool !  fool !  that  she  was !  She  reiterated  the  word  aloud 
over  and  over  again,  for  there  was  a  weird  pleasure  in  lash- 
ing her  pride  with  the  searing  thongs  of  that  humiliating 
memory.  Had  not  God  Himself  intervened  and  torn  the 
mask  from  the  traitor's  face  she  might  even  now  be  lying 
in  his  arms,  with  the  kiss  of  an  assassin  upon  her  lips!  A 
shudder  of  loathing  went  right  through  her.  She  shivered 
as  if  stricken  with  ague,  and  all  the  while  a  blush  of  intense 
shame  was  scorching  her  cheeks. 

Fool !    Fool ! 

She  had  stood  with  her  father  beside  the  dead  body  of 
her  lover — her  lover  and  kinsman — and  there  she  had  regis- 
tered an  oath  which  a  few  cajoling  words  had  well-nigh 
caused  her  to  break.  Surely  the  dull,  aching  misery  which 
she  was  enduring  at  this  moment  was  but  a  very  mild  pun- 
ishment for  her  perjury. 

She  had  allowed  Ramon's  murderer  to  cajole  her  with 
gentle  words,  to  lull  her  into  apathy  in  the  face  of  her 
obvious  duty  to  her  King  and  to  the  State.  He  had  played 
the  part  of  indifference  when  all  the  while  he — above  all 


230  LEATHERFACE 

others — was  steeped  to  the  neck  in  treason  and  in  rebellion ! 
He!  the  spy  of  the  Prince  of  Orange!  the  hired  assassin! 
the  miserable  cowardly  criminal!  And  she  had  listened  to 
him,  had  sat  close  beside  him  by  the  hearth  and  allowed  his 
arm  to  creep  around  her  shoulders  .  .  .  the  arm  which 
had  struck  Ramon  down  in  the  dark  .  .  .  the  arm — she 
no  longer  doubted  it  now — which  would  be  hired  to  strike 
the  Duke  of  Alva,  or  her  own  father  with  the  same  abomi- 
nable treachery. 

Oh!  the  shame  of  it!  the  hideous,  abominable  shame! 
He  had  guessed  last  night  that  she  was  on  the  watch,  that 
she  had  seen  and  heard  the  odious  plotting  against  the  life 
of  the  Lieutenant-Governor :  he  had  guessed,  and  then — 
by  tortuous  means  and  lying  tongue — had  sought  to  circum- 
vent her — had  lured  her  into  this  city — and  then,  by  dint 
of  lies  and  more  lies  and  lies  again,  had  hoped  to  subdue 
her  to  his  will  by  false  kisses  and  sacrilegious  love. 

And  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  sacrificing  her  country's 
needs  and  the  life  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  to  the  blandishments 
of  a  traitor! 

Oh !  the  shame  of  it !    The  terrible,  burning  shame  I 

But  God  had  intervened !  ...  At  least  of  this  she  could 
have  no  doubt.  All  day  she  had  prayed  for  an  indication 
from  above — she  had  prayed  for  guidance,  she  had  prayed 
for  a  sign,  and  it  had  come!  Awesome,  terrible  and  abso- 
lutely convincing.  God,  in  unmasking  the  one  traitor  who 
had  well-nigh  touched  her  heart,  had  shown  her  plainly  that 
her  duty  lay  in  unmasking  them  all!  Traitors!  traitors! 
every  one  of  them !  and  God  had  given  her  an  unmistakable 
sign  that  He  desired  to  punish  them  all. 

Did  she  neglect  those  signs  now  she  would  be  the  vilest 
traitor  that  ever  defiled  the  earth.  ...  It  had  all  been  so 
clear.  ,  .  The  melee  in  the  streets  .  .  Mark's  interfer- 


UTTER  LONELINESS  231' 

ence — the  blow  from  the  halberd  which  had  reopened  the 
half-healed  wound  ...  his  momentary  weakness  and  her 
sudden  vision  of  the  truth !  .  .  .  Thank  God  it  was  not  too 
late!  The  meeting  was  to  be  held  this  night  at  the  house 
of  Messire  Deynoot  the  Procurator-General  .  .  .  the 
Prince  of  Orange  and  all  the  other  rebels  would  make  the 
final  arrangements  for  taking  up  arms  against  the  King  and 
murdering  or  capturing  the  Lieutenant-Governor. 

This  meeting,  at  any  rate,  she — Lenora — had  frustrated. 
Mark  of  a  surety  had  already  warned  the  conspirators, 
before  he  started  on  the  journey — and  Laurence  too  after 
he  received  her  letter.  .  .  .  The  meeting  of  a  certainty 
would  be  postponed.  But  even  so,  and  despite  all  warnings, 
the  band  of  assassins  could  not  escape  justice.  Her  letter 
would  be  in  her  father's  hands  this  night:  in  a  few  hours 
he — and  through  him  the  Lieutenant-Governor — would 
know  every  phase  of  the  infamous  plot  which  had  the  mur- 
der of  His  Highness  for  its  first  aim — they  would  know 
the  names  of  the  two  thousand  traitors  who  were  waiting 
to  take  up  arms  against  the  King — they  would  know  of 
William  of  Orange's  presence  in  Ghent,  of  his  recruiting 
campaign  there,  of  the  places  where  he  kept  stores  of  arms 
and  ammunition. 

All  that  she  had  set  forth  clearly  and  succinctly — omit- 
ting nothing.  Oh!  her  father  would  know  how  to  act! 
He  would  know  how  to  crush  the  conspiracy  and  punish  the 
traitors ! 

Would  he  also  know  how  to  lay  his  powerful  hand  on  the 
mysterious  Leatherface  .  .  .  the  man  of  dark  deeds  and 
cruel,  treacherous  blows  .  .  .  the  murderer  of  Ramon  de 
Linea — the  one  whom  others  paid  to  do  the  foul  deeds 
which  shunned  the  light  of  day  .  .  .  ? 

Lenora  leaned  back  against  the  cushions  of  her  chair. 


LEATHERFACE 

Physical  nausea  had  overcome  her  at  the  thought  of  all 
that  she  had  done.  She  had  served  the  King  and  had  served 
the  State !  She  had  undoubtedly  saved  the  life  of  the  Duke 
of  Alva,  and  therefore  rendered  incalculable  service  to  her 
country  .  .  .  she  was  the  means  whereby  a  band  of  pesti- 
lential traitors  and  rebels  would  be  unmasked  .  .  .  and 
punished  .  .  .  and  among  these  she  must  reckon  Mark  van 
Rycke  .  .  .  her  husband.  .  .  .  Oh !  him  she  hated  with 
a  real,  personal  hatred  far  stronger  and  more  implacable 
than  that  wherewith  she  regarded — impersonally — all  the 
enemies  of  the  King.  He  seemed  to  her  more  cruel,  more 
cowardly,  more  despicable  than  any  man  could  be!  .  .  . 
Yes !  she  had  done  all  that,  and  now  her  one  hope  was  that 
she  might  die  this  night — having  done  her  duty  and  kept 
her  oath,  and  then  been  left  unutterably  lonely  and  wretched 
— in  hopeless  desolation. 


IV 


The  night  was  rough,  as  Crete  had  foretold.  Gusts  of 
wind  blew  against  the  window-frames  and  made  them  rat- 
tle and  creak  with  a  weird  and  eerie  sound.  The  rain  beat 
against  the  panes  and  down  the  chimney  making  the  fire 
sizzle  and  splutter,  and  putting  out  the  merry  little  tongues 
of  flame.  Lenora  drank  some  milk  and  tried  to  eat  the 
bread,  but  every  morsel  seemed  to  choke  her.  She  went  to 
the  window  and  drew  aside  the  thick  curtains  and  sat  in 
the  seat  in  the  embrasure — for  she  felt  restless  and  stifled. 
Anon  she  threw  open  one  of  the  casements. 

The  rain  beat  in  against  her  face  and  bare  neck,  but  this 
she  did  not  mind;  she  was  glad  to  cool  her  head  and  face 
a  little.  The  Grand'  Place  looked  gloomy  and  dark;  most 
of  the  lights  in  the  Cloth  Hall  opposite  were  extinguished 


UTTER  LONELINESS  233 

— only  in  a  few  windows  they  still  glimmered  feebly. 
Lenora  caught  herself  counting  those  lights :  there  were  two 
small  ones  in  the  dormer  windows  at  the  top,  and  one  in  a 
tall  window  in  the  floor  below,  and  right  down  on  a  level 
with  the  street  the  main  door  stood  wide  open  and  showed 
a  long,  shallow  streak  of  light.  One!  two!  up  above!  they 
looked  like  eyes !  Then  one  in  the  middle  that  was  the  nose 
— all  awry  and  out  of  the  centre! — and  below  the  long 
mouth — like  a  huge  grin !  And  the  roof  looked  like  a  huge 
hat  with  the  tower  like  a  feather  I  The  more  Lenora  looked 
into  those  lights  opposite,  the  more  like  a  grinning  face 
did  they  seem,  until  the  whole  thing  got  on  her  nerves,  and 
she  started  laughing!  laughing!  .  .  .  She  laughed  until 
her  sides  ached,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears !  she  laughed 
though  her  head  was  splitting  with  pain,  and  the  nerves  of 
her  face  ached  with  intolerable  agony.  She  laughed  until 
her  laughter  broke  into  a  sob,  and  she  fell  forward  with 
her  hands  upon  the  window  sill,  her  burning  forehead  upon 
her  hands,  the  rain  and  wind  beating  upon  her  head,  her 
neck,  her  back ;  her  hair  was  soon  wet  through ;  its  heavy 
strands  fell  away  from  the  pins  and  combs  that  confined 
them  and  streamed  down  like  a  golden  cascade  all  about 
her  shoulders,  the  while  she  sobbed  out  her  heart  in  misery 
and  wretchedness. 


The  clock  of  the  Cloth-Hall  tower  chimed  the  ninth  hour. 
Lenora  raised  her  head  and  once  more  peered  out  into 
the  night. 

Nine  o'clock!  If  Michel  Daens  had  done  his  duty,  he 
must  be  more  than  half-way  to  Brussels  by  now.  It 
almost  seemed  to  Lenora's  supersensitive  nerves  at  this 


234  LEATHERFACE 

moment  that  she  could  hear  the  tramp  of  his  horse's  hoofs 
upon  the  muddy  road — Hammer!  Hammer!  Hammer! 
Surely,  surely  she  could  hear  it,  or  was  it  her  own  heart- 
beats that  she  was  counting? 

Hammer !  Hammer !  Hammer !  Two  horses,  each  with 
a  rider,  were  speeding  along  the  road:  one  to  Brussels — 
Michel  Daens  the  butcher-messenger,  bearing  the  letter  for 
don  Juan  de  Vargas  which  would  raise  in  its  trail  a  harvest 
of  death  for  traitors  .  .  .  and  along  the  road  to  Ghent 
Mark  speeding  too,  to  warn  those  traitors  to  remain  in 
hiding — or  to  flee  while  there  was  yet  time — for  justice 
Was  on  their  track.  Mark  had  gone  to  Ghent,  of  this 
Lenora  was  sure ;  she  had  burned  his  letter,  but  she  remem- 
bered its  every  word.  He  spoke  of  meeting  the  ox-wagon 
which  was  on  its  way  from  Ghent!  besides  which,  of 
course,  he  was  bound  to  go  back.  Was  he  not  the  paid  spy 
of  the  Prince  of  Orange — his  mentor  and  his  friend? 

And  mentally  Lenora  strained  her  ears  to  listen  ...  to 
hear  which  of  those  two  riders  would  first  reach  his  destina- 
tion. And  as  she  listened  it  seemed  as  if  that  monotonous 
hammer !  hammer !  was  beating  against  her  heart,  and  with 
every  blow  was  crushing  to  death  more  of  her  life,  more 
of  her  youth  .  .  .  and  all  her  hopes  of  happiness. 


VI 


Inez — tired  out  with  the  jolting  of  the  wagon,  wet  to 
the  skin,  fagged  and  cold — found  her  mistress  still  sitting 
by  the  open  window,  with  streaming  hair  and  eyes  glow- 
ing as  with  inward  fever.  The  devoted  soul  very  quickly 
forgot  her  own  discomfort  in  view  of  her  young  mistress' 
sorry  plight.  She  chafed  the  ice-cold  hands  and  combed 


UTTER  LONELINESS  235 

the  dripping  hair;  she  took  off  the  heavy  gown,  and  the 
leather  shoes  and  silk  stockings.  She  bathed  the  hot  brow 
and  little  cold  feet,  and  finally  got  Lenora  into  bed  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  smile. 

"There  now,  my  saint,"  she  said  cheerily,  "you  feel 
better,  do  you  not?  I  tell  you  when  I  met  Messire  van 
Rycke  and  he  told  me  that  you  were  here  and  that  we  were 
to  get  to  you  at  once,  I  nearly  swooned  with  fright  .  .  . 
I  wanted  to  ask  him  a  dozen  questions  .  .  .  but  he  had 
ridden  away  out  into  the  darkness  before  I  could  speak. a 
single  word.  .  .  ." 

The  pillow  was  fresh  and  smelt  sweetly  of  lavender. 
Lenora  had  closed  her  eyes  and  a  sense  of  physical  well- 
being  was — despite  heart-ache  and  mental  agony — gradu- 
ally creeping  into  her  bones. 

"Where  did  you  meet  Messire  van  Rycke,  Inez?"  she 
asked  quietly. 

"Oh!  a  long  way  from  here,  my  saint.  We  did  not 
start  from  Ghent  till  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and 
have  been  jogging  along  at  foot-pace  ever  since.  Ohf 
these  interminable  roads,  and  horrible,  jolting  wagons! 
It  was  about  two  hours  ago  that  we  came  on  Messire 
van  Rycke  riding  like  one  possessed." 

"He  was  riding  toward  Ghent?" 

"Toward  Ghent,  my  saint.  And  as  I  told  you — as  soon 
as  he  had  given  Jan  his  orders,  he  flew  by  like  the  wind. 
The  roads  were  quite  lonely  after  that.  I  tell  you,  my 
saint,  I  was  passing  glad  that  we  had  a  good  escort — two 
mounted  men  you  know  rode  beside  the  wagon — or  I  should 
have  been  mightily  afraid  of  malefactors." 

"You  gave  the  sealed  packet  to  Messire  Laurence  van 
Rycke,"  asked  Lenora,  "as  I  had  directed?" 

"I  gave  him  the  packet  two  hours  after  you  had  started." 


236  LEATHERFACE 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  nothing,  my  saint." 

With  a  weary  sigh,  Lenora  turned  her  head  away.  She 
kept  her  eyes  closed  resolutely,  and  after  a  while  Inez 
thought  that  she  slept.  So  she  tip-toed  quietly  out  of  the 
room,  having  drawn  the  coverlet  well  over  her  mistress* 
form.  She  left  the  lamp  in  the  room,  for  she  had  enough 
understanding  to  know  that  Lenora  was  perturbed  and 
anxious,  and  in  times  of  anxiety  darkness  is  oft  an  evil 
counsellor. 


BOOK  THREE:   GHENT 


BOOK  THREE:  GHENT 
CHAPTER   XII 


REPRISALS 


IT  is  to  the  seigneur  de  Vaernewyck — that  excellent  and 
faithful  chronicler — that  we  are  indebted  for  the  most 
detailed  account  of  all  the  events  which  occurred  in  the  city 
of  Ghent  during  those  few  memorable  days  in  October. 

The  weather,  he  tells  us,  had  been  perpetually  rainy, 
and  the  days  were  drawing  in  rapidly,  for  it  was  then  the 
[iQth  of  the  month,  and  what  with  the  sky  so  perpetually 
overcast  it  was  nearly  dark  when  close  upon  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  the  ensigns  of  the  companies  of  Walloon 
soldiery  first  entered  the  city  by  the  Waalpoort.  They 
demanded  admittance  in  the  name  of  the  King,  the  Regent 
and  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  and  the  guard  at  the  gate 
would  certes  never  have  ventured  to  refuse  what  they 
asked. 

At  first  the  townsfolk  were  vastly  entertained  at  seeing 
so  many  troops ;  nothing  was  further  from  their  mind  than 
the  thought  that  these  had  been  sent  into  the  city  with 
evil  intent.  So  the  gaffers  and  gossips  stood  about  in  the 
streets  and  open  places  staring  at  the  fine  pageant,  and 
the  women  and  children  gaped  at  the  soldiers  from  the 
windows  of  their  houses,  all  in  perfect  good  humour  and 
little  dreaming  of  the  terrible  misery  which  these  soldiers 

239 


240  LEATHERFACE 

were  bringing  in  their  train  into  the  beautiful  city  of 
Ghent. 

No  one  thought  of  civil  strife  then. 

In  the  forefront  marched  men  and  young  boys  who 
carried  javelins  in  their  hands  and  had  round  shields 
swung  upon  their  arm;  these  shields  were  bordered  with 
a  rich  fringe  of  crimson  silk  and  they  glittered  like  steel 
in  the  damp  atmosphere.  After  these  men  came  a  com- 
pany of  halberdiers  from  the  garrisons  of  Mechlin  and 
Alost,  and  they  looked  splendid  in  their  striped  doublets, 
their  plumed  bonnets  slung  behind  their  backs,  their  enor- 
mous boots  reaching  half-way  up  their  thighs.  In  the  midst 
of  them  rode  the  Master  of  the  Camp  on  his  cream  charger ; 
the  ends  of  his  crimson  and  yellow  scarf,  soaked  through 
with  the  rain  and  driven  by  the  wind,  flapped  unremittingly 
against  his  steel  cuirass,  whilst  the  plumes  on  his  felt  hat 
hung — bedraggled — into  his  face. 

Then  came  the  arquebusiers,  marching  five  abreast,  and 
there  were  several  thousands  of  them,  for  it  took  half  an 
hour  for  them  all  to  cross  the  bridge.  These  were  fol- 
lowed by  a  vast  number  of  elegant  foot-soldiers  carrying 
their  huge  lances  upon  their  shoulders,  well-armed,  mag- 
nificently accoutred,  their  armour  highly  polished  and  richly 
engraved  and  wearing  gauntlets  and  steel  bonnets.  Finally 
came  three  companies  of  artillery  with  culverines  and 
falconets  and  with  five  wagons,  and  behind  them  the  massed 
drummers  and  fifers  who  brought  up  the  rear  playing  gay 
music  as  they  marched. 

The  troops  assembled  on  the  Kouter  which  was  thronged 
to  overflowing  with  gaffers  and  idlers.  Everyone  was 
talking  and  jesting  then,  no  one  had  a  thought  of  what 
was  to  come,  no  one  looked  upon  these  gaily-decked  troops 
with  any  sinister  prescience  of  coming  evil.  They  were 


REPRISALS 

nearly  all  Walloons,  from  the  provinces  of  Antwerp  and 
Brabant,  and  many  of  them  spoke  the  Flemish  tongue  in 
addition  to  their  own — and  when  after  inspection  they  stood 
or  walked  at  ease  on  the  Kouter,  the  girls  exchanged  jests 
and  merry  sallies  with  them. 


ii 


Two  hours  later  the  Duke  of  Alva  entered  the  city.  It 
was  a  very  dark  night,  but  the  rain  had  left  off.  The 
Lieutenant-Governor  had  a  company  of  lancers  with  him, 
and  these  were  Spanish,  every  man  of  them.  One  hundred 
torch-bearers  accompanied  the  Duke  and  his  escort  and 
they  had  much  difficulty  in  keeping  their  torches  alight  in 
the  damp  night  air;  the  flames  spluttered  and  sizzled  and 
the  men  waved  the  torches  about  so  that  sparks  flew  about 
in  every  direction  to  the  grave  danger  of  the  peaceable 
citizens  who  were  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  crowd. 

It  was  to  be  supposed  that  the  High-Bailiff  and  Sheriffs 
of  the  city  had  been  warned  of  the  arrival  of  His  Highness, 
for  they  met  him  at  the  Waalpoort,  attired  despite  the 
threatening  weather  in  their  magnificent  civic  robes.  The 
Duke  who  rode  a  black  charger  paused  just  inside  the  gates 
and  listened  in  silence  to  the  loyal  address  which  these 
dignitaries  presented  to  him.  The  sizzling  torches  threw 
a  weird,  unsteady  light  upon  the  scene,  distorting  every 
form  into  a  grotesque  shape,  half -concealing,  half -illumin- 
ing the  stern  face  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor  draped  in 
his  velvet  robe. 

When  the  loyal  address  had  been  duly  presented,  and 
further  speeches  of  welcome  delivered  by  the  senior  sheriff 
and  by  the  Schout,  the  Lieutenant-Governor  demanded  that 


LEATHERFACE 

the  keys  of  the  city  be  within  the  hour  brought  to  him  on 
the  Kouter  where  he  would  be  inspecting  the  troops.  This 
demand  greatly  astonished  the  sheriffs  and  aldermen,  but 
they  did  not  dare  to  raise  any  objections  and  promised 
that  they  would  most  dutifully  comply  with  His  Highness' 
request. 

"With  my  commands,"  the  Duke  corrected  them 
curtly. 

Nor  would  he  dismiss  the  grave  seigneurs,  but  kept 
them  kneeling  there  before  him  in  the  mud,  until  they 
had  humbly  assured  him  that  they  would  execute  his 
commands. 

Whereupon  the  Duke  proceeded  to  the  Kouter. 

The  troops  had  been  aligned  for  his  inspection,  and  a 
very  gay  and  gaudy  throng  they  looked  in  the  flickering 
torch-light.  All  the  houses  round  the  Place  were  lighted 
up  from  within  by  now,  and  crowds  thronged  in  from  all 
the  side  streets.  It  was  many  years  since  Ghent  had  seen 
so  gay  a  sight.  There  were  three  hundred  torch-bearers 
on  the  parade  ground  by  now,  each  with  huge  resin  torches, 
and  so  brightly  illumined  was  the  Place  that  you  could 
have  deciphered  a  letter  out  in  the  open  just  as  easily  as 
you  would  in  daylight.  Lances  and  halberds  held  erect 
formed  a  shimmering  background  to  the  picture  like  a 
forest  of  straight  tall  stems,  and  their  metal  heads  glim- 
mered like  little  tongues  of  fire,  throwing  out  strange  and 
unexpected  flashes  of  light  as  the  men  moved  who  held 
them. 

In  the  centre  of  the  picture  the  Duke  of  Alva  on  horse- 
back. The  endurance  of  the  man  was  absolutely  wonder- 
ful !  He  had  ridden  all  the  way  from  Brussels  that  day — 
starting  at  daybreak — a  matter  of  nine  leagues  and  more. 
He  had  tired  two  horses  out,  but  not  himself — and  he  was 


REPRISALS  243 

a  man  of  sixty.  The  chronicler  goes  on  to  tell  us  that 
the  Duke's  face  looked  grim  and  determined,  but  not 
fatigued,  and  in  his  prominent  eyes  under  their  drooping 
lids  was  a  glitter  like  steel — hard  and  cruel  and  trium- 
phant too. 

He  held  the  reins  of  his  charger  with  one  hand,  the  other 
was  on  his  hip.  He  wore  a  felt  hat  which  he  had  pulled 
down  upon  his  brow,  and  a  huge  cape  of  dark  woollen  stuff 
lined  with  purple  silk  which  covered  his  shoulders  and  fell 
right  round  him  over  his  saddle-bow.  A  group  of  cava- 
liers surrounded  him  in  fantastic  multi-coloured  doublets 
and  hose,  all  slashed  and  pinked,  and  enormous  bonnets 
covered  with  gigantic  plumes,  and  behind  these  stood  the 
standard  bearers.  The  autumn  wind  had  caught  the  folds 
of  the  huge  ensigns  which  were  grouped  in  half  dozens 
close  together,  so  that  the  great  folds  interlocked  from 
time  to  time  and  spread  themselves  out  like  a  monster 
moving,  waving  mass  of  crimson  and  yellow  with  the 
devices  of  the  companies  embroidered  thereon  in  black 
and  silver. 

It  was  indeed  a  fine  and  picturesque  spectacle,  arranged 
with  a  view  to  making  it  impressive  and  to  strike  awe  into 
the  hearts  of  the  citizens.  The  civic  dignitaries  had  re- 
turned by  now,  and  the  High-Bailiff  had  brought  the  keys 
of  the  town  upon  a  velvet  cushion.  He  and  the  ten  sheriffs 
and  the  Schout,  the  fifteen  Vroedschappen  who  were  the 
city  councillors  and  the  Schepens  who  were  the  aldermen 
all  approached  the  Lieutenant-Governor  with  back  nearly 
bent  double  in  their  loyalty  and  humility. 

But  when  they  were  within  speaking  distance  of  the 
Duke  they  all  had  to  kneel — just  as  before — in  the  mud 
and  the  dirt.  The  Master  of  the  Camp  was  there  to  direct 
them  and  they  had  not  the  pluck  to  resist.  Then  the  High- 


244  LEATHERFACE 

Bailiff  was  made  to  advance  alone  with  the  cushion  in  both 
his  hands  and  upon  the  cushion  the  keys  of  the  city,  and 
he  was  made  to  kneel  close  to  the  Duke's  stirrup  and 
humbly  present  him  with  the  keys. 

The  Lieutenant-Governor  said  curtly :  "  Tis  well !"  and 
ordered  the  chief  gentleman  of  his  body-guard  to  take  pos- 
session of  the  keys.  Then  he  said  in  a  loud  voice  so  that 
every  one  could  hear : 

"The  gates  of  this  city  shall  be  closed  this  night,  and 
will  so  remain  until  such  time  as  the  order  which  I  am 
about  to  give  to  the  inhabitants  is  complied  with." 

There  was  a  prolonged  roll  of  drums;  and  the  gentle- 
man of  the  bodyguard  rode  away  from  the  Place  with  a 
company  of  halberdiers,  and  he  carried  the  keys  of  the 
city  with  him.  He  was  going  to  close  the  gates  of  the  city 
as  the  Lieutenant-Governor  directed. 

When  the  roll  of  the  drums  had  died  away  there  was  a 
moment's  silence  on  the  huge  overcrowded  Kouter  through 
which  you  might  have  heard  a  thousand  hearts  beating  in 
sudden  deathly  anxiety.  Here  then  was  no  ordinary 
pageant,  no  mere  display  of  soldiery  and  of  arms  such  as 
the  Spaniards  were  overfond  of.  Something  momentous 
was  about  to  happen  which  in  these  days  of  perpetual  strife 
and  continuous  oppression  could  but  mean  sorrow  and 
humiliation  to  this  proud  city  and  to  her  freedom-loving 
children.  The  High-Bailiff  and  the  Schout  and  the  town 
councillors  were  all  kept  kneeling,  though  they  were  elderly 
men  most  of  them,  and  the  ground  was  very  damp;  and 
the  people  crowded  in  all  round  the  soldiers,  as  near  as 
they  could,  in  order  to  hear  what  His  Highness  wished 
to  say. 

"Citizens  of  Ghent,"  he  began  in  his  harsh  and  strident 
voice  which  could  be  heard  from  end  to  end  of  the  Kouter. 


REPRISALS  245 

"It  has  come  to  my  knowledge  that  William  of  Nassau 
Prince  of  Orange  is  dwelling  in  this  city,  and  that,  contrary 
to  the  ordinance  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King,  he  hath 
attempted  to  levy  troops  within  these  gates  for  an  un- 
lawful purpose.  Those  who  have  thus  in  defiance  of  all 
law  and  order  enrolled  themselves  under  a  standard  of 
rebellion  and  have  taken  up  arms  against  our  Sovereign 
Lord  and  King  will  be  dealt  with  summarily.  But  in  the 
meanwhile  understand  that  any  one  who  henceforth  har- 
bours under  his  roof  the  said  William  of  Nassau  Prince 
of  Orange,  or  assists  or  aids  him  to  leave  this  city,  is  guilty 
of  rebellion,  and  will  be  punished  with  death.  Under- 
stand also  that  it  is  my  desire  that  the  person  of  the  Prince, 
of  Orange  be  delivered  unto  me  within  forty-eight  hours 
at  the  Kasteel  where  I  shall  be  lodging,  and  that  I  have 
ordered  that  the  gates  of  the  city  be  closed  until  the  expira- 
tion of  that  time.  And  finally  understand  that  if  within 
forty-eight  hours  the  person  of  William  of  Nassau  Prince 
of  Orange  is  not  delivered  unto  me,  then  will  the  whole  city 
of  Ghent  be  guilty  of  treason  and  rebellion,  and  every 
man,  woman  and  child  in  it  will  be  punishable  with  death ; 
and  the  town  itself  will  be  dealt  with  as  summarily  as 
were  Mons  and  Valenciennes  and  Mechlin.  God  bless  ouq 
gracious  and  merciful  King!" 

He  raised  his  hat  and  lifted  his  face  up  to  heaven,  and 
his  lips  were  seen  to  move  as  if  in  prayer.  The  Master  of 
the  Camp  gave  the  signal  for  a  huge  and  prolonged  roll  of 
drums  which  echoed  from  end  to  end  of  the  Kouter  and 
into  every  corner  of  the  city,  and  all  the  soldiers  set  up  a 
lusty  shout  of  "God  bless  our  Sovereign  Lord  and  King!" 
But  the  people  were  silent.  No  one  uttered  a  word,  no  one 
joined  in  the  shouting.  Men  looked  at  one  another  with 
scared,  wide-open  eyes;  the  boldest  had  become  as  pale  as 


246  LEATHERFACE 

death.  Some  of  the  women  swooned  with  terror,  others 
broke  into  terrified  sobs;  even  the  children  realised  that 
something  very  terrible  had  occurred;  they  clung  weeping 
to  their  mothers'  skirts. 

The  Lieutenant-Governor,  having  spoken,  wheeled  round 
his  horse  and  rode  slowly  across  the  Kouter  closely  sur- 
rounded by  his  bodyguard  and  his  torch-bearers.  Just 
then,  so  Messire  de  Vaernewyck  assures  us,  the  wind,  which 
had  been  very  boisterous  all  the  evening,  suddenly  dropped, 
and  the  air  became  very  still  and  strangely  oppressive.  A 
few  huge  drops  of  rain  fell  making  a  loud  patter  upon  the 
steel  bonnets  and  cuirasses  of  the  soldiers,  and  then  a  streak 
of  vivid  lightning  rent  the  black  clouds  right  out  over  the 
Leye  and  a  terrific  clap  of  thunder  shook  the  very  houses 
of  the  city  upon  their  foundation.  The  Duke  of  Alva's 
horse  reared  and  nearly  threw  him;  there  was  momentary 
confusion,  too,  among  the  bodyguard.  Those  who  were 
devout  Catholics  promptly  crossed  themselves;  those  who 
were  superstitious  at  once  saw  in  that  curious  and  unex- 
pected phenomenon  a  warning  from  God  Himself. 

Then  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents  and  speedily  dis- 
persed the  crowd.  The  civic  magistrates  and  councillors 
were  at  last  able  to  struggle  to  their  feet — most  of  them 
felt  cramped  from  the  lengthy  kneeling.  They  assembled 
in  groups  and  whispered  with  one  another;  the  townsfolk 
looked  on  them  with  eyes  full  of  anxiety;  it  was  to  them 
that  the  poorer  people  must  look  for  help  in  this  awful 
calamity  which  threatened  them  all. 


in 

After  the  Lieutenant-Governor  and  his  cortege  had  left 
the  Kouter  the  soldiers  broke  ground  and  ran  wild  through- 


REPRISALS  247 

out  the  city.  No  special  lodgings  had  been  allotted  to 
them,  but  apparently  they  had  been  told  that  they  could 
quarter  themselves  where  they  listed.  They  began  by 
taking  possession  of  the  covered  markets — and  this  could 
easily  have  been  tolerated;  but  many  of  them  raided  the 
houses  of  peaceful  citizens  in  a  manner  most  unseemly 
and  often  brutal,  making  terrible  noise  and  confusion 
throughout  the  city.  They  treated  the  owners  of  the  houses 
as  if  the  latter  were  nought  but  menials  and  they  themselves 
the  masters  of  the  place;  so  much  so  indeed  that  several 
families  left  their  homes  in  the  possession  of  these  soldiery, 
and  took  refuge  with  relations  who  had  not  been  thus 
inflicted. 

Terror  and  misery  had  rapidly  spread  throughout  the 
city.  There  were  many  who  had  not  heard  the  proclama- 
tion of  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  and  when  the  rumour 
reached  them  that  numbers  of  soldiers  were  billeted  in  the 
town  they  made  preparations  for  immediate  flight.  Some 
even  went  so  far  as  to  load  all  their  furniture  and  effects 
upon  wagons,  ready  to  go  out  of  the  city  this  very  night 
— for  they  remembered  how  five  years  ago  when  first  the 
Duke  of  Alva's  troops  were  quartered  in  Ghent,  how 
abominably  they  had  behaved  toward  all  the  citizens — • 
robbing,  looting,  and  pillaging,  for  all  the  world  as  if 
they  were  bands  of  brigands,  rather  than  disciplined 
soldiers. 

Great  was  the  terror  and  consternation  of  those  who 
wanted  to  flee  now  when  they  understood  that  all  the  city 
gates  were  closed  and  that  no  one  would  be  allowed  to  go 
through  them  until  the  Prince  of  Orange,  who  was  said 
to  be  in  Ghent,  was  delivered  over  to  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor. 

This  was  indeed  a  terrible  state  of  things  and  one  des- 


248  LEATHERFACE 

tined  to  strike  hopeless  terror  in  the  hearts  of  most,  seeing 
that  hardly  any  one  inside  the  city  knew  aught  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange  or  of  his  comings  and  goings,  and  yet 
they  were  liable  to  be  punished  for  treason  in  which  they 
had  had  no  share. 

And  in  the  meanwhile  the  soldiers  ran  riot  throughout 
the  city — even  though,  with  much  ostentation,  a  great  deal 
of  to-do  and  much  beating  of  drums,  their  provosts  read 
out  at  the  four  corners  of  the  city  a  proclamation  for- 
bidding all  looting  and  marauding,  and  enjoining  the  men 
under  pain  of  hanging  to  take  anything  from  the  citizens 
without  paying  for  it. 

This  proclamation  was  of  course  a  mere  farce,  for  the 
soldiers,  despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  had  at  once  raided 
the  butchers',  bakers',  and  other  provision  shops,  and 
though  they  professed  to  pay  for  everything  they  took, 
they  refused  to  give  more  than  one  sou  for  a  pound  of 
meat,  and  then  they  cut  out  all  the  bone,  and  threw  it  back 
in  the  face  of  the  wretched  butcher  who  tried  to  argue 
with  them. 

And  all  the  while  remember  that  these  men  were  not 
Spaniards;  they  were  Walloons  of  the  provinces  immedi- 
ately adjacent  to  the  two  Flanders,  and  their  kith  and 
kin  had  also  grievously  suffered  from  Spanish  arrogance 
and  oppression.  But  what  will  men  not  do  for  money 
or  under  compulsion — or  mayhap  under  that  abject  fear 
which  the  very  name  of  Alva  had  brought  forth  into  the 
heart  of  people  who  had  once  been  so  proud  and  so  inde- 
pendent? The  Seigneur  de  Vaernewyck  puts  it  on  record 
that  in  his  opinion  the  employing  of  Walloon  troops  to 
check  the  so-called  revolt  of  Ghent  was  an  act  of  refined 
cruelty  on  the  part  of  the  Duke.  He  liked  to  pit  brother 
against  brother,  kinsman  against  his  own  kind.  He  had 


REPRISALS  249 

cowed  the  Flemings  and  the  Walloons  to  such  an  extent 
that  now  at  last  he  could  use  one  against  the  other,  and 
could  rely  on  each  side  being  more  cruel  and  relentless 
through  that  extraordinary  perversion  of  human  nature 
which  makes  civil  strife  so  much  more  brutal  and  horrible 
than  any  war  between  the  nations. 


CHAPTER    XIII 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG 


SOME  two  hours  later — in  a  long,  low,  vaulted  room 
which  was  the  refectory  of  the  convent  of  the  Sisters  of 
St.  Agneten — some  two  thousand  men  were  assembled. 
They  sat  on  wooden  benches  all  round  the  two  huge,  horse- 
shoe-shaped tables  at  which  the  Sisters  were  wont  to  take 
their  meals.  The  room  was  situate  on  the  ground  floor  of 
the  convent  building,  and  a  row  of  low,  groined  windows 
ran  the  whole  length  of  one  of  the  walls;  heavy  curtains 
hung  before  all  the  windows,  and  portieres  were  drawn 
over  the  doors  at  either  end,  both  in  order  to  deaden  all 
sound  and  to  prevent  all  light  from  showing  without.  Tal- 
low candles  burned  in  tall  pewter  candelabra  at  intervals 
upon  the  tables. 

The  bulk  of  the  men  who  were  there  were  young — or 
at  any  rate  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  strong  and  well-knit 
in  figure — the  sort  of  men  whom  any  leader  would  be 
glad  to  enrol  as  soldiers  under  his  banner;  but  there  were 
others  among  them  who  were  grave  and  elderly — like 
Messire  Deynoot,  the  Procurator-General,  and  the  Baron 
van  Grobbendock,  chief  financial  adviser  on  the  Town 
Council.  Messire  Pierre  van  Overbeque,  Vice-Bailiff  of 
Ghent,  was  also  there,  as  well  as  Messires  Lievin  van 
Deynse,  the  wealthy  brewer  at  the  sign  of  the  "Star  of  the 
North"  in  the  Nieuwpoort,  Laurence  van  Rycke,  son  of 

250 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  251 

the  High-Bailiff,  and  Frederic  van  Beveren,  wardmaster 
of  the  Guild  of  Armourers;  and  there  were  a  good  many 
others — gentlemen  of  substance  and  consideration  in  the 
town. 

At  this  moment  every  one  of  those  two  thousand  men 
were  keeping  their  eyes  fixed  upon  one  who  alone  was 
standing  under  the  dais  at  the  end  of  the  refectory  where 
the  abbess  of  the  convent  usually  had  her  place.  This 
portion  of  the  room  was  raised  two  steps  above  the  rest, 
and  standing  there,  the  man  who  thus  held  the  attention 
of  all  the  others  looked  abnormally  tall,  for  he  was  dressed 
in  doublet  and  hose  of  some  dark  stuff  which  clung  to  him 
like  a  skin.  His  high  boots  reached  well  over  his  thighs, 
his  head  was  closely  shrouded  in  a  hood,  and  his  face  was 
hidden  by  a  mask,  made  of  untanned  leather — which  left 
the  mouth  only  quite  free. 

"His  Highness  the  Prince  of  Orange,  whom  may  God 
protect,"  he  was  saying  in  a  loud,  clear  voice  which  rang 
out  from  end  to  end  of  the  room,  "was  fortunately  able 
to  furnish  me  with  all  your  names  and  places  of  abode 
With  the  help  of  Messire  van  Deynse,  who  lent  us  his 
horses,  and  Messire  Laurence  van  Rycke  and  Frederic  van 
Beveren,  who  gave  me  their  assistance,  we  were  able  to 
communicate  with  you  all  during  the  night  and  warn  you 
of  the  imminent  danger  which  hung  over  your  heads." 

"It  was  well  done,  friend  Leatherface,"  said  Messire 
Deynoot,  "so  well,  indeed,  that  we  are  all  ready  and  willing 
to  place  ourselves  under  your  guidance  and  to  accept  you 
as  our  leader,  for  of  a  truth  we  know  not  what  we 
must  do." 

"Would  to  God,"  said  the  man  whom  they  called 
Leatherface,  "that  I  could  do  more  for  you  than  the  little 
which  I  have  done.  To  each  of  you  last  night  I  gave  the 


252  LEATHERFACE 

same  warning :  'Danger  is  nigh !  terrible !  imminent !  for 
our  plans  are  discovered  and  the  presence  of  the  Prince 
of  Orange  in  Ghent  known  to  the  Duke  of  Alva!  Let 
all  those  who  wish  to  do  so  leave  the  city  at  once  with 
their  wives  and  children,  for  death  and  torture  threatens 
those  who  remain !' ' 

"As  you  see,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Lievin  van  Deynse, 
the  wealthy  brewer,  quietly,  "not  one  of  us  hath  followed 
this  portion  of  your  advice." 

"You  are  all  brave  men  and  noble  sons  of  Flanders," 
quoth  Leatherface  earnestly.  "His  Highness  is  proud  of 
you,  he  believes  in  you,  he  trusts  you.  A  cause  which 
has  such  men  as  you  for  its  champions  and  defenders  is 
assured  of  victory." 

A  murmur  of  satisfaction  went  round  the  room,  and 
Leatherface  resumed  after  a  little  while  : 

"In  the  meanwhile,  with  the  help  of  God,  the  precious 
person  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  is  safe." 

A  hearty  cheer — quickly  suppressed — greeted  this  an- 
nouncement from  every  side.  "Unfortunately,"  con- 
tinued Leatherface,  "I  could  not  persuade  His  Highness 
to  leave  the  city  early  this  morning.  He  would  not  be- 
lieve in  the  danger  which  was  threatening  him.  .  .  .  He 
would  not  believe  that  his  plans  and  his  presence  here  had 
been  betrayed." 

"Yes!  betrayed!"  now  said  one  of  the  younger  men 
vehemently,  "and  by  whom  ?  Dost  know  by  whom,  friend 
Leatherface  ?" 

And  all  around  the  tables,  grimly  set  lips  murmured : 

"By  whom?     My  God!  by  whom  were  we  betrayed?" 

And  Laurence  van  Rycke's  glowing  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  man  under  the  canopy  as  if  he  would  have  torn 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  253 

the  mask  from  off  his  face  and  read  in  those  mysterious  eyes 
the  confirmation  of  his  own  horrible  fears. 

And  Leather  face,  looking  straight  into  Laurence's  pale 
and  haggard  face,  said  slowly: 

"By  one  who  hath  already  paid  the  full  price  for  all 
the  misery  which  that  betrayal  will  bring  in  its  wake." 

"Dead?"  came  in  awed  yet  eager  query  from  most  of 
them  there. 

Leatherface  bent  his  head,  but  gave  no  direct  reply, 
and  all  of  them  there  were  satisfied,  for  they  believed 
that  the  faithful  and  wary  watch-dog — justiciary  as  well 
as  guardian  angel — had  discovered  the  betrayer,  and  had 
killed  him,  making  him  pay  the  "full  price"  for  all  the 
misery  which  he  had  brought  about.  Only  Laurence  hung 
his  head  and  dared  not  ask  any  more. 


ii 


"And  now  tell  us  about  the  Prince,"  urged  Messire 
van  Overbeque,  the  Vice-Bailiff.  "Where  is  he  now?" 

"Well  on  his  way  to  Brugge,  please  God,"  replied  the 
man  with  the  leather  mask.  "All  day  I  had  entreated 
him  to  go,  but  he  refused  to  listen.  'You  dream  of 
treachery,'  he  said  to  me,  'and  see  it  where  none  exists!' 
I  spent  the  day  scouting  as  far  as  Melle  and  Wetteren, 
for  I  felt  that  nothing  would  convince  him  but  actual 
facts.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  advance 
courier  arrived  from  Alost.  Luckily,  his  horse  was  less 
swift  than  mine.  I  managed  to  gain  on  him  and  brought 
in  the  news  of  the  Duke  of  Alva's  arrival  to  His  Highness 
half  an  hour  before  the  commandant  of  the  garrison 
knew  of  it." 


254  LEATHERFACE 

"Even  then  it  might  have  been  too  late,"  quoth  one  of 
the  listeners. 

"It  very  nearly  was,"  retorted  Leatherface  light-heart- 
edly. "Had  the  Lieutenant-Governor  sent  advance  orders 
that  his  arrival  be  kept  a  secret  until  his  troops  passed 
through  the  city  gates,  the  Prince  of  Orange  would  still 
be  in  Ghent  at  this  hour." 

"Holy  Virgin!"  exclaimed  Laurence  van  Rycke,  "and 
what  did  you  do?" 

"His  Highness  donned  doublet  and  hose  of  common 
buffle  and  pulled  a  tattered  felt  hat  well  over  his  eyes,  as 
did  also  the  Count  of  Hoogstraaten  and  young  Count 
Mansfeld.  I  made  myself  look  as  like  a  draper's  assistant 
as  I  could,  and  then  the  four  of  us  joined  the  crowd.  The 
rumour  of  the  Duke's  coming  had  spread  all  over  the  city ; 
there  were  plenty  of  gaffers  about.  All  round  by  the 
Waalpoort  they  abounded,  and  as  the  twilight  slowly  faded 
into  dusk  the  approaches  to  the  gate  were  densely  packed. 
No  one  was  allowed  to  loiter  round  the  guard-house  or 
upon  the  bridge,  but  there  were  many  who,  with  over- 
whelming loyalty,  desired  to  greet  the  Duke  of  Alva  even 
before  he  reached  the  confines  of  the  city.  That  was  our 
opportunity.  The  commandant  at  the  Waalpoort  hap- 
pened to  be  in  rare  good  humour;  he  thought  the  idea  of 
meeting  the  Lieutenant-Governor  and  his  troops  some 
way  outside  the  city  an  excellent  one.  He  allowed  those 
who  wished,  to  go  across  the  bridge.  The  Prince  of 
Orange,  his  two  friends  and  I  were  merged  in  that  crowd, 
and  no  one  took  notice  of  us.  Directly  we  reached  Meirel- 
beke  we  struck  across  the  fields.  In  ten  minutes  we  left 
the  crowd  a  long  way  behind  us,  and  had  skirted  the 
town  as  far  as  Wondelghem.  We  were  in  no  danger  then,, 
but  His  Highness  was  greatly  fatigued,  There  was  a 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  255 

difficulty  too  about  getting  horses;  young  Count  Mansfeld 
was  footsore  and  the  Count  of  Hoogstraaten  perished 
with  thirst.  In  short,  it  was  six  o'clock  before  we  had 
the  horses  ready,  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the 
Prince  safely  started  on  his  way.  When  I  returned  it 
was  close  on  eight,  and  the  city  gates  had  all  been  locked." 

He  gave  a  light,  good-humoured  laugh,  and  one  of  the 
men  asked:  "Then  how  did  you  get  in?" 

"I  swam  and  I  scaled  the  walls,"  he  replied  simply. 

"But  .  .  .  how?"  asked  another. 

"Oh !    I  swim  like  a  fish  and  climb  like  an  ape.  .  .  ." 

"But  were  you  not  seen?" 

"Oh,  yes!  and  shot  at  ...  but  the  Spaniards  are  bad 
shots  and  ...  I  am  here." 

Again  he  laughed  gaily,  light-heartedly  like  a  'prentice 
after  an  escapade,  and  the  two  men  who  sat  nearest  him — 
the  Procurator-General  and  the  Baron  van  Groobendock 
— surreptitiously  took  hold  of  his  hand  and  pressed  it 
warmly. 


in 


"So  much  for  the  past,  seigniors,"  resumed  Leather- 
face,  after  awhile :  "my  duty  is  done.  I  leave  the  planning 
of  the  future  to  wiser  heads  than  mine." 

"No!  no!"  quoth  the  Vice-Bailiff  emphatically.  "Have 
we  not  said  that  we  want  you  to  lead  us?" 

"I?"  retorted  the  other  gaily.  "What  do  I  know  of 
leadership?  I  am  only  His  Highness'  watch-dog.  Let  me 
follow  a  leader  and  bear  my  share  in  the  present  trouble. 
I  am  not  fit  to  command.  .  .  ." 

A  murmur  went  round  the  room,  and  the  Procurator- 
General  rejoined  earnestly:  "The  men  will  obey  no  one 


256  LEATHERFACE 

but  you.  Take  off  your  mask,  friend,  and  let  us  all  look 
upon  the  face  of  a  man." 

"You  have  all  despised  me  too  much  in  the  past  to  heed 
my  counsels  now." 

"There  you  spoke  a  lie,  man,"  said  Messire  van  Deynse, 
the  brewer.  "We  have  all  honoured  the  man  whom  we 
called  Leather  face,  as  the  bravest  amongst  us  all.  We 
do  not  know  who  you  are — we  only  know  you  as  a  gallant 
gentleman  to  whom  next  to  William  of  Orange  himself 
we  owe  every  triumph  which  our  cause  hath  gained  over 
our  execrated  tyrants.  Therefore  I  pray  you  to  unmask 
and  let  us  know  at  least  to  whom — next  to  God  Himself — 
we  owe  the  life  of  the  noble  Prince  of  Orange,  and  also 
to  whom  we  must  look  in  future  for  guidance  and  leader- 
ship." 

Once  more  the  murmur  went  round  the  room:  words 
of  warm  approval  came  from  every  side,  whilst  among 
the  younger  men  the  cry  was  raised  and  repeated  insist- 
ently: "Unmask!" 

"Unmask!"  cried  Laurence  van  Rycke.  "Be  you  crim- 
inal or  ne'er-do-well  in  the  eyes  of  others,  you  are  a  hero 
in  our  sight." 

"Unmask!  unmask!"  they  reiterated  unanimously. 

The  man  with  the  leather  mask  then  advanced  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  platform,  and,  putting  up  his  hand,  he 
asked  for  silence. 

"Seigniors,"  he  began,  "I  am  your  servant  and  will  do 
as  you  wish.  I  have  told  you  that  I  am  no  leader  and 
am  not  fit  to  command  .  .  .  yet  you  choose  to  honour 
me,  and  this  is  no  time  for  false  humility  and  the  diffidence 
which  is  the  attribute  of  cowards.  But — despite  your 
gracious  choice  of  me  as  your  leader  in  this  terrible  emer- 
gency— will  you  ere  you  finally  decide  to  follow  me  hear 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  257 

from  me  what  plan  I  should  pursue,  and  to  what  heights 
of  self-sacrifice  I  would  ask  you  to  rise  in  the  face  of  the 
awful  calamity  which  threatens  our  city.  Seigniors,"  he 
continued,  and  indeed  now  save  for  the  ring  of  that  deep- 
toned  voice,  so  great  was  the  silence  in  the  vast  refectory 
that  every  heart-beat  might  have  been  heard,  "you  have 
heard  the  decree  of  our  tyrant.  Unless  we  deliver  to 
him  the  precious  person  of  our  noble  Prince,  the  whole 
city  will  be  delivered  over  to  the  brutal  soldiery,  who 
will  pillage  our  houses,  desecrate  our  churches,  murder  and 
outrage  our  wives,  our  mothers  and  our  children — just 
as  they  did  in  Mons,  in  Valenciennes  and  in  Mechlin. 
Seigniors,  we  are  men — all  of  us  here — and  at  thought  of 
what  awaits  us  and  our  fellow-citizens  our  very  heart 
blood  seems  to  freeze  with  horror.  It  is  of  our  women  that 
we  must  think  and  of  our  children!  Thank  God  that  the 
Prince  knows  nothing  of  this  decree — which  hath  been 
framed  by  the  most  inhuman  monster  the  world  hath  ever 
known— or  of  a  certainty  he  would  have  gone  straight 
to  the  Kasteel  and  given  up  his  precious  life  to  save  our 
fellow-citizens.  Seigniors,  what  the  Prince  would  have 
done,  we  know;  and  as  he  would  have  acted,  so  must  we 
be  prepared  to  act.  But  before  I  parted  from  him,  I  had 
his  advice  on  the  plan  which  I  now  beg  leave  to  place 
before  you.  On  my  word  of  honour,  seigniors,  he  ap- 
proved of  it  in  its  entirety,  and  much  that  I  will  submit 
to  you  anon  hath  been  framed  under  his  guidance." 

He  paused  awhile  and  through  the  holes  in  the  mask 
his  glowing  eyes  searched  the  faces  of  his  listeners  with 
a  masterful  glance  that  was  both  challenging  and 
appealing. 

"Every  one  of  us  here,"  he  said  abruptly,  "is,  I  know, 


258  LEATHERFACE 

ready  to  sacrifice  his  life  for  faith,  for  freedom  and  coun- 
try, and  ere  we  give  in  to  the  monstrous  tyranny  which 
hath  planned  the  destruction  of  our  city  we  must  fight, 
seigniors,  fight  to  the  death,  fight  for  every  inch  of  our 
ground,  fight  for  every  homestead  which  we  would  save 
from  outrage.  Death  awaits  us  all  anyhow,  then  at  any 
rate  with  God's  help  let  us  die  fighting  to  the  end." 

Once  more  he  paused  in  order  to  draw  breath,  even 
whilst  from  every  side  there  came  emphatic  words  of 
enthusiasm  and  of  approval.  He  held  his  hearers  now 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand ;  they  were  unemotional,  stolid 
men  for  the  most  part,  these  Flemish  burghers  and  patri- 
cians— men  who  throughout  the  terrible  oppression  under 
which  they  had  groaned  for  over  fifty  years  had  grimly 
set  their  teeth  and  endured  where  others  had  fought — 
because  reason  and  common  sense  had  shown  the  futility, 
the  irreparableness  of  the  conflict — but  they  were  men, 
too,  who,  once  roused  to  action,  would  never  give  in  until 
they  had  won  their  fight  or  had  been  destroyed  to  the 
last  man  of  them;  and  with  that  inspiring  prophet  stand- 
ing there  before  them,  stirring  their  sluggish  blood  with 
his  ringing  voice,  some  of  that  same  determination  began 
to  creep  into  their  bones  which  had  animated  valiant 
Orange  and  his  brothers  and  his  Dutch  followers  to  carry 
on  the  struggle  for  freedom  at  all  costs  and  with  the  last 
drop  of  their  blood. 

"We'll  fight  with  you  and  under  your  standard,  friend," 
said  the  Procurator-General  who  was  the  spokesman  of 
the  others.  "We  are  well  armed.  .  .  ." 

"Aye!  ye  are  well  armed,"  rejoined  Leatherface  trium- 
phantly. "The  guild  of  armourers  are  with  us  to  a  man; 
and  we  have  been  able  to  supplement  our  secret  stores 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  259 

with  all  the  treasure  in  the  magnificent  armoury  which 
Messire  van  Beveren  has  placed  at  our  disposal  in  the 
name  of  his  guild.  Aye!  we  are  well  armed  and  well 
manned!  There  are  two  thousand  of  us,  seigniors,  and 
our  numbers  will  be  doubled  before  noon  to-morrow.  The 
Duke  hath  brought  ten  thousand  soldiers  with  him!  well! 
it  will  be  a  three-to-one  fight;  but  if  we  were  still  more 
completely  outnumbered  we  would  still  carry  on  the 
struggle,  seeing  that  the  lives  of  our  children  and  the 
honour  of  our  women  are  at  stake." 

"We  can  fight,"  murmured  one  of  the  older  men,  "but 
we  cannot  conquer." 

"No!  we  cannot  conquer,"  said  Leatherface  earnestly. 
"We  must  perish,  because  might  is  greater  than  right, 
unless  God  chooseth  to  perform  a  miracle — and  I,  for  one, 
still  believe  that  He  will.  But  we  must  not  weaken  our 
determination  by  reckoning  childishly  on  divine  interfer- 
ence. If  we  fight,  we  fight  because  we  refuse  to  die  like 
cowards,  because  we  refuse  to  go  before  our  Maker  shamed 
at  having  allowed  our  homes  to  be  devastated,  our  women 
outraged,  our  children  massacred  without  striking  a  blow 
— however  futile — in  their  defence.  We  fight  then,  seig- 
niors?" he  added  exultantly.  "Is  that  your  decision?" 

There  was  not  one  dissentient  voice.  Old  and  young,- 
grave  and  gay,  prudent  and  hot-headed,  every  man  there 
was  ready  to  follow  the  leader  of  their  choice. 

"For  freedom,  faith  and  country!"  cried  Leatherface 
loudly. 

"For  freedom,  faith  and  country,"  came  from  two 
thousand  panting  throats. 

"As  to  our  plan  of  campaign,"  now  resumed  the  man 
with  the  mask  as  soon  as  silence  and  calm  was  restored 


260  LEATHERFACE 

once  more,  "I  have  not  yet  had  the  time  to  think  on  all 
the  details  soberly.  But  the  main  outline  of  it  was  dic- 
tated to  me  by  the  Prince  of  Orange  even  whilst  we  halted 
at  Wondelghem,  waiting  for  horses.  He  is  the  finest  mili- 
tary strategist  the  world  hath  ever  known,  misfortune 
hath  pursued  him,  but  hath  not  impaired  his  marvellous, 
powers  of  command.  I  will  ask  some  of  you,  seigniors, 
to  aid  me  with  your  counsels,  and  with  the  directions 
which  His  Highness  hath  given  me  we  may  yet  give  such 
a  fine  account  of  ourselves  as  will  force  our  tyrants  to 
treat  with  us  for  peace.  There  are  only  two  thousand  of 
us  now ;  by  to-morrow  we  can  reckon  on  several  thousands 
more;  but  of  a  certainty  at  the  first  clash  of  arms  all  our 
young  and  able-bodied  fellow-citizens  will  take  heart  and 
join  us  in  our  desperate  struggle,  and  may  God  help 
us  all!" 

There  is  no  doubt  that  he  had  enflamed  the  blood  of  his 
hearers;  by  the  dim  light  of  the  tallow  candles  every  face 
now  looked  flushed,  every  pair  of  eyes  glowed  with  the 
noble  fire  of  patriotism  and  of  courage.  Leather  face 
waited  for  a  time  in  silence  while  whispered  conversation 
and  discussion  became  general.  He  did  not  join  in  it 
himself,  but  stood  somewhat  apart  from  the  others,  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes,  a  strange,  almost  mysterious  figure 
in  his  tightly-fitting  clothes  which  gave  full  play  to  the 
powerful  muscles  of  arms  and  thighs  and  displayed  the 
great  breadth  of  shoulder  and  depth  of  chest.  Many 
there  were  who  still  eyed  him  curiously;  Laurence  van 
Rycke  in  particular  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  him,  but  no 
one  thought  of  challenging  him  again  to  unmask.  What 
mattered  what  the  face  was  like,  when  the  heart  was"  Sd 
great  and  fine? 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  261 


IV 

After  a  few  minutes  the  man  with  the  mask  once  more 
advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  platform.  There  was  still 
something  that  he  wished  to  say. 

"We  must  not  forget,  seigniors,"  he  began  very  quietly, 
"that  the  tyrant  hath  given  us  a  respite  of  forty-eight 
hours  before  he  will  embark  on  his  hellish  work  of  destruc- 
tion. He  hath  demanded  the  person  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  as  the  price  of  his  mercy.  Well,  seigniors,  the 
Prince,  thank  God,  is  no  longer  here;  but  it  is  just  possible 
that  we  may  bribe  the  wild  beast  yet  into  satisfaction  by 
giving  him  some  of  the  blood  for  which  he  thirsts,  and 
thus  save  our  beautiful  city  from  all  the  horrors  which  he 
hath  in  contemplation  against  her." 

"And  how  wilt  do  that,  friend?"  sighed,  Messire  van 
Overbeque  despondently. 

"With  your  permission  I  will  explain,"  rejoined  the 
other.  "I  propose  that  anon  in  the  early  morning  a 
certain  number  of  you  seek  out  the  Duke  of  Alva  in  Het 
Spanjaard's  Kasteel  and  tell  him  that  the  Prince  of  Orange 
— aided  by  his  humble  watchdog — did  succeed  in  evading 
once  again  the  trap  which  had  been  set  for  him;  but," 
he  continued  with  slow  and  deliberate  emphasis,  "that 
you  are  prepared  to  deliver  into  his  hands  the  person  of  the 
man  Leatherface,  since  you  happen  to  know  his  where- 
abouts in  the  city." 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  continue,  loud  and  vehement 
protestations  against  this  monstrous  proposal  arose  from 
every  side. 

"I  entreat  you,  seigniors,  to  remember,"  he  continued 
with  deep  earnestness  as  soon  as  the  tumult  had  subsided, 


363  LEATHERFACE 

"that  a  certain  amount  of  mystery  hath  hung — not  through 
mine  own  seeking,  believe  me — around  my  person.  Next 
to  our  Prince  himself,  there  are  few  in  this  unfortunate 
country  whose  death  would  be  more  welcome  to  our  Span- 
ish tyrants  than  that  of  the  miscreant  Leatherface;  and 
my  belief  is  that  if  you  offered  to  give  him  up  to  the 
Lieutenant-Governor  you  might  obtain  from  that  cruel 
despot  a  small  measure  of  mercy  for  our  city." 

He  had  long  since  finished  speaking,  but  now  there  were 
no  longer  any  protestations  or  murmurs;  an  awesome 
silence  hung  about  the  vaulted  room.  No  one  had  stirred ; 
no  one  spoke;  not  one  man  dared  to  look  his  neighbour 
in  the  face.  Every  man  stared  straight  before  him  at  that 
slim  figure,  which  suddenly  appeared  to  them  all,  to  be 
unearthly  as  it  stood  there,  beneath  the  canopy,  like  the 
very  personification  of  simple  self-sacrifice,  offering  up  his 
life  so  willingly,  and  above  all,  so  cheerfully  to  save  his 
fellow-men. 

In  these  days  of  cruel  oppression  and  of  sublime  virtues, 
such  an  act  of  abnegation  was  probably  not  rare;  men 
were  accustomed  to  suffer  death  and  worse  for  an  ideal, 
and  for  the  sake  of  others  who  were  weaker  than  them- 
selves; but  there  was  something  so  engaging,  so  light- 
hearted  in  that  stranger  there  that  every  man  who  heard 
him  felt  that  by  sacrificing  such  a  man  he  would  be  sending 
a  brother,  a  son,  or  dear  friend  to  the  gallows. 

"Well,  seigniors,"  said  Leatherface,  "I  still  await  your 
decision." 

'/You  speak  glibly,  friend,"  murmured  the  Procurator- 
General  sombrely,  "but  if  the  tyrant  hath  you  in  his  power, 
it  will  not  only  mean  death  for  you,  remember,  it  will 
not  mean  the  axe  or  the  gallows,  it  will  mean  the  torture- 
chamber  of  the  Inquisition  first  and  the  stake  afterwards." 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  263 

"I  know  that,"  retorted  the  other  simply.  "Better  men 
than  I  have  gone  through  it  all  for  faith  and  freedom.  I 
am  young,  'tis  true — but  I  have  no  ties  of  interest  or 
affection  that  bind  me  to  this  earth.  Few  men  will  go  to 
their  Maker  so  little  regretted  by  kith  or  kin  as  I  shall  be. 
So  I  pray  you  do  not  think  of  me.  Rather  turn  your 
thoughts,  I  entreat,  to  the  details  of  the  plan,  the  composi- 
tion of  the  deputation  that  would  be  prepared  to  meet  the 
Duke  of  Alva  to-morrow.  Those  posts,  too,  will  be  full 
of  danger,  and  the  negotiations,  too,  might  fail — what  is 
the  life  of  one  man  worth  when  weighed  in  the  balance 
with  an  entire  city?" 

"And  which  of  us  would  you  entrust  with  the  abomi- 
nable errand?"  queried  Laurence  van  Rycke  abruptly. 

"Not  you,  of  a  certainty,"  said  the  other.  "Your  mother 
will  have  need  of  comfort  and  protection,  since  she  refused 
to  place  herself  in  safety.  Messire  the  Procurator-General 
should,  I  think,  lead  the  deputation,  he  hath  never  been 
suspected  of  heresy  or  rebellion,  and  the  proposal  would 
thus  come  quite  naturally  from  him;  if  Messire  van  Over- 
beque  will  join  him  and  you,  Seigneur  van  Groobendock, 
meseems  that  we  could  not  choose  better." 

"Nay !  I  cannot  do  it,"  interposed  the  Vice-Bailiff  vehe- 
mently. "I  would  sooner  cut  off  my  right  hand  now." 

"Would  you  sooner  sacrifice  this  city,  all  the  women 
and  children,  your  own  wife,  Messire,  and  daughters, 
rather  than  one  man  whose  identity  you  need  never 
know?" 

It  was  indeed  a  terrible  puzzle,  one  which  even  these 
brave  men  found  it  hard  to  solve. 

"I  entreat  you,  seigniors,"  continued  Leatherface  ear- 
nestly, "to  do  what  I  ask.  Nay!"  he  added  resolutely, 


264  LEATHERFACE 

"I'll  do  more.  Just  now  you  chose  me  as  your  leader. 
Then  I  command  you  to  act  in  accordance  with  my  will." 

"You  are  quite  determined,  then?"  asked  the  Vice- 
Bailiff. 

"Would  you  counsel  me  to  waver?"  retorted  the  other. 
"Ah,  seigniors!"  he  added,  with  that  ringing  note  in  his 
voice  which  was  so  inspiring  to  them  all,  "I  entreat  you 
do  not  grieve  for  me.  Rather  grieve  for  yourselves  and 
gather  courage  for  your  errand.  So  help  me  God,  yours 
will  be  no  easy  task.  You  will  have  to  fawn  and  to  cringe 
before  the  tyrant  whom  you  hate.  You  will  have  to  bear 
his  arrogance  and  the  insolence  of  his  menials.  You  will 
have  to  swallow  your  wrath  and  to  bend  your  pride.  Your 
sacrifice  indeed  will  be  far  harder  to  make  than  mine.  I 
only  offer  mine  own  unworthy  life;  you  will  offer  up  to- 
morrow your  dignity,  your  manhood,  all  that  you  and  your 
fathers  hold  so  dear.  Nay!  I  would  not  change  places 
with  you  for  ten  such  worthless  lives  as  mine.  See,  what 
a  coward  I  am — I  send  you  to  do  this  abominable  errand, 
while  I  sit  at  home  in  comfort  and  dream  of  the  hap- 
piness of  giving  my  life  for  Ghent  and  for  her  children!" 

"God  help  us  all!"  murmured  Messire  Deynoot,  the 
Procurator-General. 

"Indeed,  He  alone  can  do  that,"  rejoined  Leatherface, 
"for  grave  fears  assail  me  that  our  proposal  will  be 
rejected;  is  it  likely  that  it  would  appeal  to  such  a  blood- 
thirsty tyrant  as  the  Duke  of  Alva?  My  one  hope — and 
that  alas!  is  a  slender  one — is  that  he  hath  it  not  in  his 
mind  to  destroy  our  beautiful  city,  and  might  be  glad  of 
an  excuse  of  exercising  mercy." 

A  groan  of  execration  greeted  this  suggestion.  Was  it 
likely  that  any  thought  of  mercy  could  ever  enter  the 
mind  of  such  a  man? — more  cruel  than  any  beast  of  prey, 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  265 

for  he  killed  for  the  mere  sake  of  killing,  inflicted  inhuman 
tortures  on  innocent  victims  for  the  sake  of  gloating  over 
their  sufferings,  and  rejoiced  in  bloodshed  and  outrage 
and  desecration  for  their  own  sakes,  without  any  thought 
of  benefiting  himself. 

"Then  if  these  negotiations  fail,  seigniors,"  concluded 
Leatherface  finally,  "nothing  will  be  left  for  us  but  a 
bitter  struggle  which  may  end  in  defeat,  but  which  will 
leave  us  proud  and  unconquered  still." 

"Amen  to  that,"  said  the  Procurator-General  fervently. 

"Then  let  us  go  quietly  to  our  homes  to-night.  Let 
us  keep  from  those  who  are  weak  and  anxious  all  knowl- 
edge of  that  which  we  have  resolved ;  let  our  women  pray 
while  we  prepare  to  act.  Flemish  women  have  hearts  of 
steel;  they  will  not  waver  when  the  hour  comes.  They 
will  help  us  with  their  prayers  now,  and  load  our  arque- 
buses for  us  when  we  need  them.  For  them  we  will  fight 
and  for  our  children,  and  if  defeat  stares  us  in  the  face 
at  the  last,  then  will  we  save  them  by  one  supreme  act  from 
falling  into  the  hands  of  the  tyrant.  Until  then  and  after, 
seigniors,  allow  me  to  keep  this  mask  upon  my  face. 
When  you  go  to  meet  the  Duke  of  Alva  to-morrow,  you 
will  offer  him  a  paltry  chattel,  a  man  whom  you  do  not 
know,  who  hath  no  name,  no  identity,  the  spy  of  the  Prince 
of  Orange — just  him  whom  you  call  Leatherface." 

"God  reward  you,"  they  murmured  fervently. 

"Perhaps  He  will,"  whispered  the  man  with  the  mask, 
under  his  breath,  "and  with  a  speedy  death !" 

"And  now,"  he  added,  "as  the  hour  is  late,  let  us  dis- 
perse. To-morrow,  here,  and  at  this  hour,  we  meet  again. 
Messire  Deynoot  will  give  you  a  report  of  his  audience 
with  the  tyrant,  and  I  may  be  lucky  enough  to  be  allowed 
to  give  my  life  for  this  city  which  I  love.  Farewell,  seig- 


266  LEATHERFACE 

niors,  may  God  guard  you  until  then.  If  Alva  will  have 
none  of  me,  then  I  will  have  the  honour  of  leading  you — 
to  victory,  I  hope — to  death  if  God  wills!" 

One  by  one  they  rose  from  the  benches  where  they  had 
been  sitting,  and  all  took  what  they  believed  to  be  a  last 
farewell  of  that  strange  man  whose  identity  was  still 
unknown  to  them,  yet  whom  they  had  all  learned  to  love 
as  a  leader  and  as  a  friend.  Indeed,  their  noble  hearts 
were  torn  asunder  by  the  awful  alternative  which  he  him- 
self had  placed  for  them.  It  was  a  case  of  grim  determi- 
nation, of  smothering  every  call  of  Sentiment  which  might 
prove  insistent  against  thus  sacrificing  a  brave  man  to  the 
cruel  lust  of  an  abominable  tyrant.  It  had  to  be,  and 
these  men  were  fine  and  great  enough  in  themselves  to 
understand  that  in  offering  up  his  life  to  save  his  fellow- 
citizens,  Leatherface  had  certainly  chosen  the  better  part. 

And  having  looked  their  last  on  him,  they  went  out 
through  the  postern  gate  of  the  convent  of  St.  Agneten 
in  groups  of  twos  and  threes.  They  crossed  the  two 
bridges  that  span  the  Leye  at  this  point.  The  night  was 
dark,  and  this  was  an  isolated  part  of  the  city,  situate 
far  from  the  Stadthuis  and  the  Kouter.  From  the  St. 
Baafs  and  St.  Nikolas  quarters  of  the  city  came  faintly 
echoing  across  the  river  the  sound  of  riotous  merriment 
proceeding  from  those  buildings  and  houses  wherein  the 
Walloon  soldiery  had  installed  themselves.  But  the  men 
who  had  just  pledged  themselves  to  fight  a  losing  battle 
against  overwhelming  odds  paid  no  heed  to  what  went  on 
around  them.  They  glided  noiselessly  through  the  dark 
and  narrow  streets ;  some  went  to  right,  some  to  left,  some 
to  north  and  others  to  south,  and  quietly  regained  their 
homes. 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  267 


But  in  the  vast  refectory  two  men  had  remained  behind 
after  every  one  else  had  gone:  they  were  the  man  with 
the  mask,  and  Laurence  van  Rycke. 

The  latter  had  waited  in  silence  whilst  the  whole  of 
the  assembly  filed  out  by  the  door,  but  when  Leatherface 
in  his  turn  prepared  to  go,  Laurence  threw  him  such  a 
look  of  appeal,  that  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  he  too 
decided  to  wait. 

Then  when  the  last  of  the  assembly  had  gone,  Laurence 
tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  died  in  his  throat  ere  they 
reached  his  quivering  lips.  There  was  still  that  look  of 
mute  appeal  in  his  eyes,  and  of  well-nigh  unendurable 
mental  torment  in  every  line  of  his  haggard  face,  and 
suddenly  he  gave  a  cry  like  some  wounded  creature  in 
mortal  pain;  he  fell  on  his  knees  against  the  table,  and 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  sobbed  like  a  child.  The 
other  waited  patiently  and  silently  until  the  paroxysm 
was  over:  his  mouth  beneath  the  mask  looked  set  but 
kindly,  and  his  eyes  through  the  holes  in  the  leather  were 
fixed  upon  the  stricken  man. 

"She  is  safe  from  the  vengeance  of  our  people,"  he 
said,  as  soon  as  he  saw  that  Laurence  had  momentarily 
regained  his  self-control.  "Is  that  what  troubles  you, 
Messire?" 

Laurence — already  ashamed  of  his  tears — had  strug- 
gled to  his  feet.  He  passed  his  hand  across  his  moist  fore- 
head and  through  his  unruly  hair,  and  tried  to  look 
Leatherface  valiantly  between  the  eyes. 

"Partly  that,"  he  said  resolutely.     "But  I'll  not  speak 


268  LEATHERFACE 

of  her.  It  was  she  then  who  betrayed  us  all?"  he  added 
with  another  heartbroken  cry. 

To  this  Leatherface  made  no  answer,  and  Laurence 
continued  more  calmly: 

"It  was  of  the  lists  I  wish  to  speak.  The  papers  which 
His  Highness  entrusted  to  my  care," 

"Yes?" 

"I  went  to  look  for  them  after  .  .  .  after  she  left  the 
house,  and  found  that  they  had  gone." 

"Then  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  knew  that  we  were  betrayed  .  .  .  then  «  .  .  there 
...  at  once  .  .  .  and  by  her  ...  an  exquisite  woman, 
Messire,  whom  I  ,  .  .  Oh !  it  was  horrible !"  he  exclaimed, 
and  even  now  a  look  that  was  almost  like  death  came  over 
his  wan  cheeks  and  hollow  eyes. 

Then  once  more  he  resumed  quietly:  "For  a  few  mo- 
ments the  blow  of  this  awful  discovery  completely  stunned 
me.  I  could  neither  think  nor  act.  My  first  coherent 
thought  was  to  consult  with  my  mother  as  to  what  had 
best  be  done.  How  to  find  His  Highness  until  evening 
I  knew  not,  or  how  to  obtain  duplicate  lists,  so  that  I 
could  run  round  the  town  and  warn  all  our  followers  of 
the  terrible  danger  that  threatened  them." 

"You  did  not  think  of  flight?  .  ,  ,  for  your  mother, 
I  mean?  .  .  ." 

"I  entreated  my  mother  to  leave  the  city  at  once,  but 
she  refused  to  go,  and  we  were  standing  face  to  face  with 
one  another  and  the  terrible  calamity  that  had  befallen 
us  all  when  Pierre  came  in  with  a  letter,  which — he  said — 
was  given  to  him  in  the  open  street  by  a  man  whom  he  did 
not  know.  The  letter,  I  take  it,  came  from  you." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  "I  was  afraid  that  you  might 
do  something  rash,  and  raise  the  alarm  before  it  was 


MY  FAITHFUL  .WATCH-DOG  269 

necessary.  The  lists,"  he  added,  "are  quite  safe.  I  was 
able  after  His  Highness  left  the  High-Bailiff's  house  last 
night  to  extract  them  from  the  bureau,  where  I  did  not 
feel  that  they  were  over  safe;  in  their  place  I  put  a  packet 
containing  fictitious  lists  of  men  who  do  not  exist,  and 
places  of  abode  which  are  not  to  be  found  in  this  city.  It 
is  these  which  have  been  sent  to  sefior  de  Vargas.  I  had 
just  time  to  scribble  these  and  to  place  them  in  a  con- 
spicuous place  in  the  bureau." 

"You  used  a  false  key  then?"  queried  Laurence  in 
bewilderment. 

"Am  I  not  a  spy  of  the  Prince  of  Orange?"  retorted 
the  other  with  a  quaint  little  laugh,  "and  are  not  all  spies 
provided  with  means  of  forcing  secret  locks?  Here  are 
the  lists,"  he  added,  as  from  inside  his  doublet  he  half 
drew  the  packets  of  papers.  "When  you  are  called  to 
account  for  them,  you  can  return  them  without  fear.  No 
one  will  know  that  they  ever  left  your  care  .  „  .  that  is, 
if  you  have  not  spoken  of  it  before  now.  .  .  ." 

"No.  I  had  not  the  heart.  We  all  knew  that  we  were 
betrayed.  You  warned  us  all  and  took  measures  to  con- 
vene us  here  to-night;  but  until  the  hour  when  your  letter 
warned  me  that  for  the  moment  all  was  well,  I  endured 
mental  torments  such  as  surely  the  lost  souls  in  hell  have 
never  suffered.  I  saw  those  lists  in  the  hands  of  our 
tyrants — placed  there  by  the  instrumentality  of  a  woman 
who  is  to  me  the  embodiment  of  all  that  is  pure  and  good; 
I  saw — in  my  mind — the  spies  of  Alva  going  the  round, 
this  very  night,  and  arresting  our  brave  followers  one 
by  one  *  .  .  Oh  God!  you  do  not  know  what  I  suf- 
fered. *  ,  ." 

"Do  not  think  of  that  any  more,  Messire,"  rejoined 
Leatherface  quietly.  "As  you  see,  the  lists  are  now  safe 


270  LEATHERFACE 

in  my  care.  Alas!  it  is  too  late  to  beg  you  to  take  your 
mother  out  of  the  city.  Guard  and  protect  her  well  and 
God  help  us  all." 

He  once  more  now  prepared  to  go,  and  Laurence  was- 
ready  to  follow  him,  but  just  at  the  last  an  impulse 
caused  the  latter  to  detain  the  mysterious  stranger  once 
more.  There  was  still  one  question  which  hovered  on 
his  lips,  the  answer  to  which  would  perhaps  ease  that 
awful  burden  of  sorrow  which  Lenora's  betrayal  had 
placed  upon  his  soul : 

"Messire,"  he  said  appealingly,  "what  of  her?" 

"Pray  for  her,  Messire,"  replied  Leatherface  quietly, 
"she  suffers  more  than  you  do." 

"Must  we  all  curse  her  then?  or  else  be  traitors  to  our 
own  people." 

"Nay!  you  can  pity  her!  What  she  did,  she  did  from 
her  own  sense  of  patriotism  and  of  justice.  She  hates 
us  all,  Messire,  as  the  enemies  of  her  people.  She  hates 
and  despises  me  as  the  assassin  of  the  man  she  loved. 
Pray  for  her,  Messire,  but  in  pity  pray  also  for  the  man 
who  whilst  striving  to  win  her  heart,  only  succeeded  in 
breaking  his  own." 


VI 


An  hour  later  in  the  house  in  the  Nieuwstraat,  Clemence 
van  Rycke  was  still  awake.  She  sat  in  her  favourite  tall 
chair  beside  the  hearth,  and  Laurence  her  son  was  kneeling 
beside  her. 

"It  is  too  late  now,  mother,"  he  was  saying  gloomily. 
"No  power  on  earth  can  save  you.  Would  to  God  you 
had  let  me  take  you  to  Brugge  this  afternoon." 

"And  desert  my  post  like  a  coward,"  retorted  Clemence 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  271 

hotly.  "I  can  do  little,  'tis  true;  but  when  the  hour  comes 
I  can  tend  the  sick  and  the  dying,  and  pray  for  the  dead; 
and  if  you  are  taken  from  me,  Laurence,  I  can  be  laid 
beside  you.  .  .  .  But,"  she  added,  with  such  an  intensity 
of  bitterness  and  hatred  that  her  voice  nearly  choked  her 
as  she  spoke,  "I  would  not  owe  my  safety  to  that  execrable 
traitress  .  .  ." 

"Hush,  mother,  in  the  name  of  Heaven  .  .  ,"  broke  in 
Laurence  with  a  heart-broken  sob. 

"Are  you,  too,  going  to  defend  her?"  retorted  the  mother 
fiercely. 

"She  was  compelled  to  act  as  she  did,"  murmured 
Laurence;  "she  acted  in  ignorance  and  innocence.  I'd 
stake  my  life  that  she  is  pure  and  good." 

"Pure  and  good!"  exclaimed  Clemence  with  a  strident 
laugh.  "A  spawn  of  the  devil,  without  virtue  and  with- 
out mercy.  Oh!  that  my  lips  should  ever  have  touched 
her  lying  face — that  white  forehead  which  concealed 
thoughts  of  falsehood  and  treachery!  Do  not  defend 
her,  Laurence,  or  you  will  break  my  heart.  Leave 
her  defence  to  your  brother  Mark,  who  cares  nothing  for 
his  country  and  for  his  kindred,  who  will  smile  and  drink 
whilst  the  walls  of  Ghent  fall  about  his  ears,  who  hath 
allowed  his  weak  and  cowardly  heart  to  be  captured  by 
that  murderess!  Leave  him  to  defend  her,  I  say.  Lenora 
de  Vargas  is  worthy  of  Mark  van  Rycke!" 

"Mother!"  cried  Laurence  with  uncontrolled  vehemence 
as  he  threw  his  arms  round  his  mother's  shoulders.  "In 
the  name  of  God  stop,  for  you  almost  blaspheme.  Speak 
not  of  Mark  save  with  a  blessing  on  your  lips.  Pray  for 
him  this  night,  as  you  have  never  prayed  before." 

"Laurence,"  cried  the  mother,  "are  you  mad?     What 


27i  LEATHERFACE 

do  you  mean?  What  has  happened  to  Mark?  Where 
is  he?" 

"In  his  bed,  no  doubt,  at  this  moment,  mother." 

"Sleeping  whilst  we  all  weep  and  pray!" 

"Sleeping  in  peace  whilst  giving  up  life,  and  more  than 
life,  to  try  and  save  us  all!"  retorted  Laurence,  as  he 
slowly  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Laurence!  you  are  mad!    Mark  is  .  .  ." 

"Mark  is  the  friend  and  saviour  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  mother  dear,"  said  the  young  man  quietly,  "and 
we  have  all  known  him  hitherto  as  Leatherface." 

"It  is  false!"  cried  Clemence  vehemently. 

"I  swear  by  God  that  it  is  true,"  proclaimed  Laurence, 
fervently. 

The  exclamation  which  she  would  have  uttered  froze 
upon  Clemence  van  Rycke's  lips;  for  a  moment  she  re- 
mained quite  still,  leaning  slightly  forward  with  hands 
resting  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair.  Then  a  pitiable  moan 
escaped  her,  and  slowly  she  rose  and  then  fell  upon  her 
knees. 

"Oh  God !  forgive  me,"  she  cried,  "if  this  be  true." 

"It  is  true,  mother,"  said  Laurence  firmly.  "For  close 
on  two  hours  to-night  I  sat  close  to  him  whilst  he  spoke. 
In  the  absence  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  we  have  chosen 
him  as  our  leader;  if  the  Duke  of  Alva  refuses  the  pro- 
posals which  we  are  going  to  put  before  him,  Mark  will 
lead  us  to  fight  or  to  death." 

"The  proposal!     What  proposal?" 

"That  Leatherface  be  given  up  to  the  tyrant  as  the 
price  of  the  safety  of  the  city." 

"And  you — his  brother — agreed  to  this  infamous  sug- 
gestion?" murmured  Clemence  hoarsely. 

"We  must  not  leave  a  stone  unturned  or  a  man  alive 


MY  FAITHFUL  WATCH-DOG  278 

to    save    the    women    and    children,"    replied    Laurence 
sombrely. 

"Then  may  God  have  mercy  on  us  all !"  cried  Clemence, 
and  she  fell  back  heart-broken  against  the  cushions  of 
her  chair. 


CHAPTER    XIV 


THE  TYRANTS 


THE  next  morning,  at  the  tenth  hour,  five  reverend 
seigniors  presented  themselves  before  the  Duke  of  Alva, 
Lieutenant-Governor  of  the  Low  Countries  and  Captain- 
General  of  the  Forces,  in  the  apartments  which  he  occupied 
in  Het  Spanjaards  Kasteel. 

They  were  Messire  Pierre  van  Overbeque,  Vice-Bailiff 
of  Ghent;  Messire  Deynoot,  Procurator-General,  and 
Messire  Jan  van  Migrode,  Chief  Sheriff  of  the  Keure; 
then  there  was  Messire  Lievin  van  Deynse,  the  brewer 
at  the  sign  of  the  "Star  of  the  North,"  and  Baron  van 
Groobendock,  chief  financial  adviser  on  the  Town  Council. 

They  had  waited  on  His  Highness  at  a  very  early  hour, 
but  had  been  kept  waiting  in  the  guard-room  for  two 
hours,  without  a  chair  to  sit  on,  and  with  a  crowd  of 
rough  soldiers  around  them,  some  of  whom  were  lounging 
about  on  the  benches,  others  playing  at  cards  or  dice,  whilst 
all  of  them  improved  the  occasion  and  whiled  away  the  time 
by  indulging  in  insolent  jests  at  the  expense  of  the  rev- 
erend burghers,  who — humiliated  beyond  forbearance  and 
vainly  endeavouring  to  swallow  their  wrath — did  not  dare 
to  complain  to  the  officer  in  command,  lest  worse  insults 
be  heaped  upon  them. 

At  one  hour  before  noon  the  seigniors  were  at  last 
told  very  peremptorily  that  they  might  present  themselves 

274 


THE  TYRANTS  275 

before  His  Highness.  They  were  marched  between  a  de- 
tachment of  soldiers  through  the  castle  yard  to  the  mag- 
nificent apartments  in  the  Meeste-Toren,  which  at  one 
time  were  occupied  by  the  Counts  of  Flanders.  Now  the 
Duke  of  Alva's  soldiery  and  his  attendants  were  in  every 
corridor  and  every  ante-room.  They  stared  with  undis- 
guised insolence  at  the  grave  seigniors  who  belonged  to 
the  despised  race. 

The  Lieutenant-Governor  was  graciously  pleased  to 
receive  the  burghers  in  his  council-chamber  where,  seated 
upon  a  velvet-covered  chair  upon  an  elevated  platform 
and  beneath  a  crimson  dais,  he  looked  down  upon  these 
free  citizens  of  an  independent  State  as  if  he  were  indeed 
possessed  of  divine  rights  over  them  all.  The  officer  in 
command  of  the  small  detachment  which  had  escorted 
the  deputation  into  the  dreaded  presence,  now  ordered 
the  five  seigniors  to  kneel,  and  they,  who  had  a  petition 
to  present  and  an  act  of  mercy  to  entreat,  obeyed  with 
that  proud  humility  wherewith  their  fathers  had  knelt 
thirty- two  years  ago  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  before  the 
throne  of  the  Emperor  Charles. 

"Your  desire,  seigniors?"  queried  the  Duke  curtly. 

Some  of  the  members  of  his  abominable  Grand  Council 
sat  around  him,  on  benches  placed  well  below  the  level 
of  the  platform.  Alberic  del  Rio  was  there — bland  and 
submissive;  President  Viglius,  General  de  Noircarmes, 
and  President  Hessels — men  who  were  as  bitter  against 
Orange  and  his  followers  as  was  Alva  himself — and,  sit- 
ting a  little  apart  from  the  others,  don  Juan  de  Vargas, 
but  recently  arrived  from  Brussels. 

"Your  desire,  seigniors?"  the  Duke  had  questioned 
peremptorily,  and  after  a  few  moments  Messire  Deynoot, 
the  Procurator-General,  who  was  spokesman  of  the  depu- 


276  LEATHERFACE 

tation,  began  timidly  at  first — then  gradually  more 
resolutely. 

"It  is  with  profound  grief,"  he  said,  "that  we  became 
aware  last  night  that  your  Highness'  visit  to  our  city  was 
not  one  of  goodwill  and  amity.  Your  Highness'  severe 
restrictions  upon  our  citizens  and  stern  measures  taken 
against  them  hath  filled  our  hearts  with  sorrow." 

"Your  abominable  treachery  hath  filled  our  heart  with 
wrath,"  retorted  the  Duke  roughly,  "and  nothing  but  the 
clemency  enjoined  upon  us  by  our  suzerain  Lord  and  King 
prevented  us  from  reducing  this  accursed  city  to  ashes 
and  putting  every  one  of  her  citizens  to  the  sword,  with- 
out giving  them  a  single  chance  of  retrieving  their  hellish 
conduct  by  surrendering  themselves  unconditionally  to 
our  will." 

"It  is  with  the  utmost  confidence,"  rejoined  the  Pro- 
curator-General humbly,  "that  we  rely  upon  the  well- 
known  clemency  of  our  suzerain  Lord  the  King,  and  place 
the  future  of  our  beautiful  city  unconditionally  in  your 
Highness'  hands." 

"The  future  of  the  city  is  in  my  hands,  Messire,"  said 
the  Duke  dryly,  "by  the  power  of  our  suzerain  Lord  and 
with  the  help  of  the  troops  at  my  command.  I  told  you 
last  night  under  what  condition  I  will  spare  your  town 
from  total  destruction.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  changing 
my  mind  during  the  course  of  one  night." 

"Alas,  your  Highness!  but  the  city  is  quite  unable  to 
fulfil  the  one  condition  which  would  appease  the  wrath  of 
our  suzerain  Lord  and  your  own." 

"Then,"  retorted  Alva  haughtily,  "why  waste  my  time 
and  your  own  in  bandying  words  which  must  remain  pur- 
poseless? Either  William  of  Orange  is  delivered  into  my 


THE  TYRANTS  277 

hands,  or  my  soldiers  burn  your  city  down  at  sunset 
to-morrow.  By  our  Lady!  is  that  not  clear  enough?" 

"Clear  enough,  alas!"  rejoined  the  Procurator-General, 
and  suddenly  in  his  mind  there  rose  a  picture  of  the  tall 
man  last  night  beneath  the  dais,  of  his  inspiring  words, 
his  whole-hearted  sacrifice:  his  ringing  voice  seemed  to 
echo  through  this  narrow  room,  and  some  of  the  words 
which  he  spoke  knocked  at  the  gates  of  the  grave  seignior's 
memory. 

"Yours  will  be  the  harder  task,"  he  had  said  gaily ;  "you 
will  have  to  fawn  and  to  cringe,  to  swallow  your  wrath 
and  to  bend  your  pride !"  Well !  God  knew  that  they  had 
done  all  that:  they  had  swallowed  their  wrath  and  bent 
their  pride  before  an  insolent  soldiery,  and  now  they  were 
fawning  and  cringing  to  a  tyrant  whom  they  abhorred. 

Ghent!  beloved  city!  once  the  home  of  the  free!  what 
must  thy  citizens  endure  for  thy  sake? 

And  the  Procurator-General — the  descendant  of  an 
hundred  free  men — had  to  lick  the  dust  before  Alva's 
throne.  He  forced  his  voice  to  tones  of  humility,  he 
looked  up  at  the  tyrant  with  eyes  full  of  unspoken 
devotion. 

"What  can  we  do?"  he  said  timidly,  "to  prove  our 
loyalty  ?  I  entreat  your  Magnificence  to  look  down  on  our 
helplessness.  Orange  is  no  longer  in  Ghent,  and  we  do 
not  know  where  to  find  him." 

"A  pretty  tale,  indeed,"  interposed  de  Vargas  suddenly, 
with  a  strident  laugh  which  was  echoed  obsequiously  by 
the  other  members  round  the  council  board,  "a  pretty, 
likely  tale,  which  I  trust  your  Highness  will  not  think  to 
believe." 

"I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve  any  tale  which  these 
grave  seigniors  choose  to  tell  me,"  rejoined  the  Duke.  "I 


278  LEATHERFACE 

want  Orange — or  we  burn  this  city  down  till  not  a  stone 
in  it  be  left  upon  stone." 

And  Messire  Deynoot,  whose  entire  soul  rose  in  revolt 
against  that  rough  dictate  of  a  hellish  tyrant,  had  perforce 
to  subdue  his  passionate  wrath  and  to  speak  with  affected 
humility  and  unconcern. 

"We  had  hoped,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  we  might  offer 
to  your  Highness  such  a  proof  of  our  loyalty  that  you 
would  no  longer  wish  to  cast  aside  a  city  that  hath  always 
hitherto  proved  staunch  and  true." 

"What  mean  you,  sirrah?  What  proofs  can  you  give 
me  now  of  this  accursed  city's  loyalty,  when  you  harbour 
a  veritable  army  of  traitors  within  your  walls?" 

"We  would  wish  to  prove  to  your  Magnificence  that 
the  city  itself  takes  no  part  in  the  vagaries  and  plottings 
of  a  few  hot-headed  malcontents." 

"Hot-headed  malcontents,  forsooth!"  exclaimed  the 
Duke  fiercely.  "Two  thousand  men  prepared  to  take  up 
arms  against  our  Suzerain  Lord  the  King!  .  .  .  arms 
concealed  in  churches  and  cemeteries!  money  poured  into 
the  lap  of  Orange  and  all  his  rebels!" 

"There  are  more  than  two  thousand  men  who  are  pre- 
pared to  fight  and  die  for  their  country  and  their  King," 
said  the  Fleming  suavely,  "and  who  are  equally  ready  to 
pour  money  into  the  coffers  of  their  Liege  Lord,  as  rep- 
resented by  His  Highness  Ferdinand  Alvarez  de  Toledo, 
Duke  of  Alva,  and  by  the  reverend  members  of  his 
Council." 

This  he  had  said  very  slowly  and  with  marked  emphasis, 
and  even  while  he  spoke  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
more  than  one  pair  of  eyes  round  that  Council  board  gloat- 
ing with  delight  at  the  vision  of  treasure  and  wealth  which 
his  words  had  called  forth.  He  and  his  colleagues  had 


THE  TYRANTS  279 

long  after  the  assembly  of  last  night  discussed  between 
them  this  one  proposal,  which  might,  they  hoped,  tempt 
the  cupidity  of  the  Spaniards,  which  they  knew  to  be 
boundless.  They  were  wealthy  men  all  of  them — the  town 
was  wealthy  beyond  the  dreams  of  Alva's  avarice,  and 
the  five  men  who  had  been  deputed  to  offer  up  a  brave 
man's  life  as  the  price  of  a  city's  safety,  had  resolved 
to  sacrifice  their  last  stiver,  and  keep  the  hero  in  their 
midst 

But  Alva,  with  a  sneer,  had  already  destroyed  all  the 
fond  hopes  which  had  been  built  upon  that  resolve. 

"If  you  offered  me  every  treasure — to  the  last  gulden 
— contained  in  your  city,"  he  said,  with  emphasis  no  less 
strongly  marked  than  had  been  the  other  man's  offer,  "I 
would  not  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  razing  this  abom- 
inable nest  of  rebels  to  the  ground.  Why  should  I,"  he 
added  with  a  cynical  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "take  from 
you  as  a  bribe  what  my  soldiers  can  get  for  me  by  the 
might  of  fire  and  sword?  Orange  alone  would  tempt  me, 
for  I  would  wish  to  have  him  alive — we  might  kill  him  by 
accident  when  we  destroy  the  town." 

"We  can  collect  two  million  gulden  in  gold,"  said 
Messire  Deynoot  insinuatingly,  "and  lay  that  sum  at  the 
feet  of  your  Magnificence  to-morrow." 

"Ah?"  said  the  Duke  blandly,  "then  I  am  greatly  re- 
lieved that  so  much  money  can  be  got  voluntarily  out 
of  this  city.  Your  words,  Messire,  are  honey  to  mine 
ears;  they  prove,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  if  you  can  raise 
two  million  gulden  in  forty-eight  hours  my  soldiers  can 
put  up  ten  times  that  amount  in  a  two  days'  sacking  of 
this  town." 

"The  money  voluntarily  offered,  Monseigneur,"  here 
interposed  the  Vice-Bailiff,  "would  shame  neither  the  giver 


280  LEATHERFACE 

nor  the  receiver.  The  destruction  of  a  free  and  loyal 
city  would  be  an  eternal  disgrace  upon  the  might  of 
Spain." 

"Spare  me  thy  heroics,  sirrah!"  quoth  Alva  fiercely, 
"or  I'll  have  that  impudent  tongue  of  thine  cut  out  before 
nightfall." 

And  once  more  the  burghers  had  to  bend  their  pride 
before  the  appalling  arrogance  of  their  tyrant. 

"Begone  now !"  added  the  Lieutenant-Governor  peremp- 
torily, seeing  that  the  Flemings  were  silent  for  the  mo- 
ment. "The  business  of  the  State  cannot  be  held  up  by 
such  profitless  talk.  And  if  you  have  nothing  better  to 
offer  to  our  Gracious  King  than  money  which  is  already 
his,  why,  then,  you  are  wasting  my  time,  and  had  best  go 
back  to  those  who  sent  you." 

"No  one  sent  us,  Monseigneur,"  resumed  the  Proc- 
urator-General, with  as  much  dignity  as  he  could  com- 
mand, even  though  his  back  ached  and  his  knees  were 
painfully  cramped.  "We  are  free  burghers  of  the  city  of 
Ghent,  which,  alas!  hath  earned  your  Highness*  dis- 
pleasure. We  have  offered  of  our  treasure  so  as  to  testify 
to  our  loyalty  .  .  .  but  this  offer  your  Magnificence  hath 
thought  fit  to  refuse.  At  the  same  time  we  are  not  at  the 
end  of  our  resources  or  of  our  protestations  of  loyalty. 
We  have  yet  another  offer  to  place  before  your  Highness 
which,  perhaps,  may  be  more  agreeable  in  your  sight." 

"And  what  is  that  offer,  sirrah?  Be  quick  about  it,  as 
my  patience,  of  a  truth,  is  at  the  end  of  its  resources." 

The  Procurator-General  did  not  make  immediate  reply. 
Truly  he  was  screwing  up  his  determination  for  the  ter- 
rible ordeal  which  was  before  him.  He  hung  his  head, 
and,  despite  his  fortitude — probably  because  of  weakness 
following  on  fatigue — he  felt  that  tears  gathered  in  his 


THE  TYRANTS  281 

eyes,  and  he  feared  that  his  voice  now  as  he  spoke  would 
become  unsteady.  The  others,  too,  kept  their  eyes  fixed 
to  the  ground.  They  could  not  bear  to  look  on  one  an- 
other, at  this  moment  when  they  were  about  to  offer  up 
so  brave  and  gallant  a  life  in  sacrifice  for  their  city  and 
for  all  the  townsfolk.  Indeed,  Messire  Deynoot  ere  he 
spoke  forced  his  mind  to  dwell  upon  all  the  horrors  of 
Mons  and  Valenciennes  and  Mechlin,  upon  all  the  women 
and  children,  the  feeble  and  the  old,  his  own  wife,  his 
daughters  and  his  mother,  so  as  to  gather  courage  for  the 
task  which  had  been  imposed  upon  him. 

Thus  there  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  so  in  this  narrow 
room,  wherein  the  close  velvet  draperies  made  the  air 
heavy,  so  that  the  number  of  men  here  assembled — 
Spaniards  and  Flemings  and  soldiers — felt  as  if  an  awful 
load  was  weighing  their  senses  down.  Councillor  Hessels, 
as  was  his  wont,  had  fallen  asleep.  He  woke  up  in  the 
oppressive  silence  in  order  to  murmur  drowsily:  "To 
the  gallows  with  them  all!"  Alva  sat  sullen  and  wrath- 
ful, looking  down  with  contempt  and  scorn  on  the  kneeling 
burghers  before  him.  De  Vargas,  now  and  again,  turned 
anxious,  furtive  eyes  to  where  a  rich  portiere  of  damask- 
velvet  hid  a  door  in  the  panelling  of  the  wall.  Even 
now  it  seemed  as  if  that  portiere  stirred — as  if  an  unseen 
hand  was  grasping  it  with  a  febrile  nervous  clutch — it 
seemed,  in  fact,  as  if  some  one  lived  and  breathed  there 
behind  the  curtain,  and  as  if  all  that  was  said  and  would 
be  said  in  the  room  would  find  its  echo  in  a  palpitating 
heart. 

II 

Anon  the  Duke  of  Alva's  impatience  broke  its  bounds.' 
"An  you'll  not  speak,  sirrah,"  he  cried,  "get  you  gone! 


282  LEATHERFACE 

Get  you  gone,  I  say,  ere  I  order  my  lacqueys  to  throw 
you  out  of  my  house." 

"Your  pardon,  .Monseigneur,"  said  Messire  Deynoot 
with  sudden  resolution,  "I  but  paused  in  order  to  choose 
the  words  which  might  best  please  your  ears.  The  offer 
which  I  am  about  to  make  to  your  Highness  is  in  the 
name  of  all  the  citizens  of  Ghent,  and  I  feel  confident 
that  your  Highness  will  gladly  acknowledge  that  no  greater 
mark  of  loyalty  could  be  offered  by  any  town  to  our 
suzerain  Lord  the  King." 

"Speak!"  commanded  Alva. 

"Next  to  the  Prince  of  Orange  himself,"  said  the  Proc- 
urator-General timidly,  "is  there  not  a  man  who  hath 
gravely  incurred  your  Highness'  displeasure,  but  who  hath 
hitherto  evaded  the  punishment  which  your  Highness 
would  no  doubt  mete  out  to  him  ?" 

"Yes;  there  is!"  replied  the  Duke  curtly.  "A  man  who 
chooses  to  wrap  himself  up  in  a  mantle  of  mystery;  a  spy 
of  Orange — a  rebel  and  traitor  to  the  King.  There  is 
such  a  man,  sirrah!  He  hath  several  times  thwarted  my 
projects  with  regard  to  Orange.  If,  as  you  say,  Orange  is 
not  in  Ghent  then  hath  that  man  had  a  hand  in  helping 
him  to  get  away.  Well!  what  of  that  man,  sirrah?  I 
want  him.  He  is  called  Leatherface  by  my  soldiers. 
What  of  him,  I  say?" 

"Leatherface  is  in  Ghent,  Monseigneur,"  murmured 
Deynoot,  scarce  above  his  breath. 

"Come!  that's  good!  Then  will  our  booty  be  even 
richer  than  we  thought." 

"Leatherface  is  in  Ghent,  Monseigneur,"  continued 
Deynoot,  more  steadily.  "But  he  is  an  elusive  creature. 
Mysterious  agencies  are  at  work,  so  they  say,  to  enable 
him  to  escape  the  many  traps  that  are  set  for  him.  He 


THE  TYRANTS  283 

swims  like  a  fish,  and  climbs  like  an  ape.  He  entered 
the  city  last  night,  an  hour  after  all  the  gates  had  been 
closed.  In  the  terrible  confusion  which  will  attend  the 
destruction  of  our  city,  he  would  escape  again.  ,  .  ,  But 
just  now  he  is  in  Ghent,  and  .  .  ." 

"And  you  will  deliver  him  over  to  me,"  broke  in  Alva 
with  a  harsh  laugh,  "if  I  will  spare  your  city?" 

The  Procurator-General  nodded  his  head  in  reply.  His 
lips  refused  him  service  for  that  awful,  that  irreparable 
"Yes!"  The  five  men  now  no  longer  hung  their  heads. 
White  as  the  linen  ruffles  round  their  throats,  they  were 
gazing  straight  into  the  face  of  the  tyrant,  trying  to  read 
the  innermost  thoughts  of  that  inhuman  devil,  who  held 
the  destiny  of  their  city — or  of  a  brave  man — in  the  hollow 
of  his  claw-like  hands. 

Alva  pondered;  and  while  he  did  so  his  prominent, 
heavy-lidded  eyes  sought  those  of  his  colleagues  no  less 
inhuman,  more  devilish  mayhap,  than  himself.  And  from 
behind  the  heavy  portiere  there  seemed  to  come  a  long 
drawn-out  sigh,  like  some  poor  creature  in  pain.  De 
Vargas  frowned,  and  a  muttered  curse  escaped  his  lips. 

"How  long  has  she  been  there?"  asked  Alva  quickly, 
in  a  whisper. 

"All  the  time,"  replied  de  Vargas,  also  under  his 
breath. 

"But  this  is  not  for  women's  ears." 

"Nay!  your  Highness  does  not  know  my  daughter. 
It  was  the  man  Leather  face  who  killed  her  first  lover. 
She  would  be  happy  to  see  him  hang." 

"And  she  shall,  too.  She  hath  deserved  well  of  us. 
We  owe  our  present  triumph  to  her." 

Then  he  turned  once  more  to  the  burghers. 

"I  like  your  offer,"  he  said  coldly,  "and,  in  a  measure, 


284.  LEATHERFACE 

I  accept  it.  ...  Nay!"  he  added  with  that  cruel  and 
strident  laugh  of  his,  seeing  that  at  his  words  a  certain 
look  of  relief  overspread  the  five  pale  faces  before  him, 
"do  not  rejoice  too  soon.  I  would  not  give  up  the  delight 
of  punishing  an  entire  city  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  seeing 
one  man  hang.  True!  I  would  like  to  hold  him.  Next 
to  Orange  himself,  I  would  sooner  see  that  mysterious 
Leather  face  dangling  on  a  gibbet  than  any  other  heretic 
or  rebel  in  this  abominable  country.  But  to  give  up  my 
purpose  over  Ghent,  that  is  another  matter!  Once  and 
for  all,  seigniors,"  he  added  with  fierce  and  irrevocable 
determination,  "Ghent  shall  burn,  since  Orange  has  escaped 
again.  But  I  have  said  that  I  accept  your  offer,  and  I  do. 
I  take  it  as  an  expression  of  tardy  loyalty,  and  will  reward 
you  in  accordance  with  its  value.  We  will  burn  your  city, 
seigniors;  but  if  when  your  flaming  walls  begin  to  crumble 
about  your  ears;  when  my  soldiery  have  taken  their  fill 
of  your  money  and  your  treasures,  and  human  lives  begin  to 
pay  the  toll  of  your  rebellion  and  treachery,  then,  if  you 
deliver  to  me  the  person  of  Leatherface  alive,  I  will,  in 
return,  stay  my  soldiers'  hands,  and  order  that  in  every 
homestead  one  son  and  one  daughter,  aye,  and  the  head 
of  the  house,  too,  be  spared.  Otherwise — and  remember 
that  this  is  my  last  word — not  one  stone  shall  remain  upon 
stone  within  the  city — not  one  inhabitant,  man,  woman,  or 
child,  shall  be  left  to  perpetuate  rebellion  inside  these 
walls.  I  have  spoken,  and  now  go — go  and  tell  Leather- 
face  that  I  await  him.  He  hath  not  aided  Orange's  escape 
in  vain." 

He  rose,  and  with  a  peremptory  gesture  pointed  to  the 
door.  The  five  burghers  were  silent.  What  could  they  say  ? 
To  beg,  to  implore,  to  remonstrate  would,  indeed,  have 
been  in  vain.  As  well  implore  the  fierce  torrent  not  to 


THE  TYRANTS  285 

uproot  the  tree  that  impedes  its  course,  or  beg  the  wolf  not 
to  devour  its  prey.  Painfully  they  struggled  to  their  feet, 
roughly  urged  along  by  the  soldiers.  They  were  indeed 
cramped  and  stiff,  as  well  mentally  as  physically ;  they  had 
done  their  heart-breaking  errand — they  had  swallowed  their 
wrath  and  humbled  their  pride — they  had  cringed,  and  they 
had  fawned  and  licked  the  dust  beneath  the  feet  of  the 
tyrant  who  was  in  sheer,  lustful  wantonness  sending  them 
and  their  kith  and  kin — guilty  and  innocent  alike — to  an 
abominable  death.  .  .  .  And  they  had  failed — miserably 
failed  either  to  bribe,  to  cajole,  or  to  shame  that  human 
fiend  into  some  semblance  of  mercy.  Now  a  deathlike  sor- 
row weighed  upon  their  souls.  They  were  like  five  very 
old  men  sent  tottering  to  their  own  graves. 

Some  could  hardly  see  because  of  the  veil  of  tears  be- 
fore their  eyes. 

But,  even  as  one  by  one  they  filed  out  of  the  presence 
of  the  tyrant,  they  still  prayed  .  .  .  prayed  to  God  to  help 
them  and  their  fellow-citizens  in  this  the  darkest  hour  of 
their  lives.  Truly,  if  these  valiant  people  of  Flanders  had 
lost  their  faith  and  trust  in  God  then  they  would  have 
gone  absolutely  and  irretrievably  under  into  the  awful  vor- 
tex of  oppression  which  threatened  to  crush  the  very  ex- 
istence of  their  nation,  and  would  have  hurled  them  into 
the  bottomless  abyss  of  self-destruction. 


CHAPTER 

TWO  PICTURES 


THESE  stand  out  clearly  among  the  mass  of  documents, 
details,  dissertations  and  chronicles  of  the  time — so  clearly 
indeed  that  only  a  brief  mention  of  them  will  suffice  here. 

First:  Lenora  in  the  small  room  which  adjoined  the 
council  chamber  within  Het  Spanjaard's  Kasteel  in  Ghent. 
She  had  stood  for  close  upon  an  hour  under  the  lintel  of 
the  open  door,  her  hand  clinging  to  the  heavy  velvet  por- 
tiere ;  not  one  sound  which  came  from  the  council  chamber 
failed  to  strike  her  ear :  every  phase  of  that  awesome  inter- 
view between  the  supplicants  and  their  vengeful  tyrant 
struck  at  her  heart,  until  at  last  unable  to  keep  still,  she 
uttered  a  moan  of  pain. 

All  this  was  his  work !  Not  hers !  Before  God  and  her 
own  conscience  she  felt  that  she  could  not  have  acted  dif- 
ferently; that  if  it  had  all  to  be  done  again,  she  would  again 
obey  the  still,  insistent  voice  which  had  prompted  her  to 
keep  her  oath  and  to  serve  her  King  and  country  in  the 
only  way  that  lay  in  her  power. 

It  was  his  work !  not  hers !  His,  whose  whole  life  seemed 
to  be  given  over  to  murder,  to  rebellion  and  to  secret  plot- 
tings,  and  who  had  tried  to  throw  dust  in  her  eyes  and  to 
cajole  her  into  becoming  a  traitor  too  to  all  that  she  held 
dear. 

It  was  his  work,  and  the  terrible  reprisals  which  the  Duke 
of  Alva's  retributive  justice  would  mete  out  to  this  rebel- 

286 


TWO  PICTURES  287 

lious  city  lay  at  the  door  of  those  who  had  conspired  against 
the  State,  and  not  at  hers  who  had  only  been  an  humble  tool 
in  Almighty  hands. 

But  in  spite  of  her  inner  conviction  that  she  had  done 
right,  in  spite  of  her  father's  praise  and  approval  which  he 
had  lavished  on  her  all  the  way  from  Dendermonde  to 
Ghent,  she  could  not  rid  herself  of  a  terrible  sense  of  utter 
desolation  and  utter  misery,  and  of  a  feeling  of  pity  for  all 
these  poor  people  which  caused  her  unendurable — almost 
physically  unendurable — agony. 

When  anon  the  Lieutenant-Governor  dismissed  the 
burghers  and  after  a  few  words  with  her  father  and  senor 
del  Rio  left  the  council  chamber,  Lenora  had  a  feeling  as  if 
the  ground  was  opening  before  her,  as  if  an  awful  chasm 
yawned  at  her  feet  into  which  she  must  inevitably  fall  if  she 
dared  look  into  it.  And  yet  she  looked  and  looked,  as  if 
fascinated  by  the  hideousness  of  what  she  saw — pictures  of 
cruelty  and  of  evil  far  more  horrible  than  any  which  had 
ever  been  limned  of  hell.  And  in  the  overwhelming  horror 
which  faced  her  now,  she  felt  herself  screaming  aloud,  with 
appealing  defiance :  "It  is  his  work !  not  mine !  Let  the 
blood  of  his  kinsfolk  fall  upon  him — not  me!"  ere  she  tot- 
tered and  fell  back. 

When  full  consciousness  returned  to  her,  her  father  was 
by  her  side.  He  looked  pale  and  sullen  and  instinctively  she 
drew  away  from  him,  whereat  he  smiled,  showing  his  large 
teeth  which  looked  like  the  fangs  of  a  wolf. 

"I  ought  never  to  have  allowed  you  to  come  here, 
Lenora,"  he  said  roughly.  "As  His  Highness  said,  it  was 
not  at  all  fit  for  women's  ears." 

"His  Highness,"  she  retorted  coldly,  "also  said  that  to  be 
here  was  my  right  .  .  .  your  triumph  to-day  being  all  due 
to  me." 


288  LEATHERFACE 

"Well!"  he  added  lightly,  "'tis  you  wanted  to  come, 
remember." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  wanted  to  come." 

"I  would  have  sent  you  to  Brussels  with  Inez  and  a  good 
escort.  It  is  not  too  late.  You  can  still  go.  Ghent  will 
not  be  a  fitting  place  for  women  during  the  next  few  days," 
he  added,  whilst  a  glow  of  evil  satisfaction  suddenly  lit  up 
his  sallow  face.  "Would  you  prefer  to  go?" 

"No,  father,  I  thank  you,"  she  replied.  "I  would  wish 
to  stay." 

"Ah!  that's  a  brave  daughter,  and  a  true  Spaniard," 
he  cried,  "and  I  promise  you  that  you  shall  be  satisfied 
with  what  you  see.  Ramon,  your  cousin,  will  be  avenged 
more  completely  than  even  you  could  have  dared  to  hope, 
and  that  assassin  Leatherface  will  suffer:  you  shall  see 
him  dangling  on  a  gibbet,  never  fear." 

A  slight  shudder  went  right  through  her.  Her  face  was 
as  white  as  her  gown ;  and  as  she  made  no  reply,  her  father 
continued  blandly : 

"You  little  thought  that  your  marriage  would  bring  such 
a  magnificent  harvest  of  reprisals  quite  so  soon !  The  city 
of  Ghent  and  the  man  Leatherface!  The  destruction  of 
the  one  and  the  death  of  the  other  are  your  work,  my 
daughter." 

She  closed  her  eyes ;  for  she  saw  that  awful  chasm  once 
more  yawning  at  her  feet,  and  once  more  she  felt  herself 
falling  .  .  .  falling  .  .  .  with  no  one  to  cling  to  but  her 
father  who  kept  asking  her  whether  she  was  satisfied  with 
what  she  had  done.  .  .  .  His  voice  came  to  her  as  through 
a  shroud  ...  he  talked  and  talked  incessantly  ...  of 
Ghent  ...  of  rebels  ...  of  murder  and  pillage  and  gib- 
bets and  torture-chambers  ...  of  women  and  children  and 
fathers  of  families  ...  of  sons  and  of  daughters  .  .  . 


TWO  PICTURES  289 

and  of  one — Leatherface  ...  of  the  High-Bailiff  of  Ghent 
...  of  Laurence  and  of  Mark  .  .  .  her  husband. 

"I  wonder  where  that  fool  is  now,"  she  could  hear  her 
father  saying  through  a  muffler  which  seemed  to  envelop 
his  mouth.  "On  the  high  road  to  Brussels  mayhap 
with  a  message  from  you  to  me  ...  did  you  say  you  had 
sent  him  on  from  Dendermonde  or  straight  away  from 
Ghent?  I  am  half  sorry  I  gave  in  to  your  whim  and 
brought  you  here  with  me  .  .  .  but  'tis  you  wanted  to  come 
.  .  .  eh,  my  girl?  .  .  .  you  were  so  obstinate  .  , .  .  I  was 
weak  enough  to  give  in  ...  but  I  ought  not  to  have  let 
you  listen  to  those  mealy-mouthed  Flemings !  .  .  .  ah !  you 
are  my  true  daughter  .  .  .  you  wanted  to  see  these  traitors 
punished,  what  ?  and  Ramon's  murder  avenged !  Well !  you 
shall  see  it  all,  my  dear,  I  promise  you.  .  .  .  But  I  wish 
you  could  tell  me  what  has  become  of  that  fool  of  a  hus- 
band of  yours  ...  we  shall  have  to  know  presently  if  you 
are  still  wife  or  widow.  .  .  ." 

He  said  this  quite  gaily  and  laughed  at  his  own  jest,  and 
Lenora,  pale  and  wild-eyed,  echoed  his  laugh.  She  laughed 
as  she  had  done  two  nights  ago  at  Dendermonde  when  a 
face  made  up  of  lighted  windows  grinned  at  and  mocked 
her  across  the  Grand'  Place.  She  laughed  until  the  whole 
room  began  to  dance  a  wild  galliarde  around  her,  until  her 
father's  face  appeared  like  one  huge,  mocking  grin. 

Then  she  just  glided  from  the  couch  down  on  to  the  floor. 
And  there  she  lay,  white  and  inert,  whilst  senor  de  Vargas, 
cursing  the  megrims  of  women,  went  calmly  in  search 
of  help. 

ii 

The  second  picture  has  for  background  the  refectory  in 
the  convent  of  St.  Agneten  at  the  same  hour  as  when  last 


290  LEATHERFACE 

night  the  newly  chosen,  mysterious  leader  had  roused 
boundless  enthusiasm  in  the  hearts  of  all  his  hearers.  There 
is  no  lack  of  enthusiasm  now  either,  but  tempers  are  more 
subdued — gloom  hangs  over  the  assembly,  for  Messire  the 
Procurator-General  has  just  given  a  graphic  account  of  his 
mission  to  the  Lieutenant-Governor. 

When  he  has  finished  speaking,  the  man  with  the  mask 
who  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table  at  the  top  of  the  long,  low 
room,  asks  quietly : 

"Then  he  refused?" 

All  the  five  men  who  this  morning  had  knelt  humbly 
before  the  tyrant,  exchange  silent  glances,  after  which 
Messire  Deynoot  says  firmly : 

"He  refused." 

"Nothing  will  save  our  city,"  insisted  Leatherface  sol- 
emnly, "except  if  we  track  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  bring 
him  bound  and  a  prisoner  to  the  feet  of  Alva?" 

"Nothing!  save  Orange's  person  will  move  Alva  from 
his  resolve." 

Leatherface  sits  for  a  moment  quite  still,  with  his  head 
buried  in  his  hands:  and  the  vast  crowd  now  assembled 
in  the  room  waits  in  breathless  silence  for  his  next  word. 
There  are  far  more  than  two  thousand  men  here  this  night ; 
the  number  has  indeed  been  more  than  doubled.  The 
deadly  danger  which  threatens  the  city  has  already  brought 
over  three  thousand  new  recruits  to  the  standard. 

Suddenly  with  a  resolute  gesture  Leatherface  draws 
his  mask  away  and  rises  to  his  feet  in  full  view  of  all  the 
crowd. 

"Mark  van  Rycke!"  comes  as  one  cry  from  several 
hundred  throats. 

"Aye!"  he  says  with  a  light  laugh,  "your  ne'er-do-well 
and  frequenter  of  taverns  was  just  the  watch-dog  of  our 


TWO  PICTURES  291 

noble  Prince.  Unknown  I  was  able  to  render  him  some 
small  service.  Now  that  you  are  no  longer  called  upon  to 
throw  me  as  a  bait  to  the  snarling  lion,  I'll  resume  mine 
own  identity,  and  hereby  ask  you,  if — knowing  me  for 
what  I  am — you  still  trust  me  to  lead  you  to  victory  or  to 
death?" 

"To  victory !"  shout  the  younger  men  enthusiastically. 

"To  die  like  men,"  murmur  the  older  ones. 

"To-morrow  we  fight,  seigniors!"  says  Mark  earnestly, 
"to-morrow  we  defend  our  homes,  our  wives,  our  daugh- 
ters, with  scarce  a  hope  of  success.  To-morrow  we  show 
to  the  rulers  of  the  world  how  those  of  the  down-trodden 
race  can  die  whilst  fighting  for  God  and  liberty." 

"To-morrow!"  they  all  assent  with  unbounded  en- 
thusiasm. 

The  ardour  of  a  noble  cause  is  in  their  veins.  Not  one 
'of  them  here  hesitates  for  one  second  in  order  to  count  the 
cost.  And  yet  every  one  of  them  know  that  theirs  is  a 
forlorn  cause.  How  can  a  handful  of  burghers  and  appren- 
tices stand  up  before  the  might  of  Spain?  But  they  are 
men  at  bay!  they — the  sober  burghers  of  a  fog-ridden  land, 
steady,  wise  of  counsel,  without  an  ounce  of  impetuosity  or 
hot-headedness  in  their  blood ;  and  yet  they  are  ready  to  go 
into  this  desperate  adventure  without  another  thought  save 
that  of  selling  their  lives  and  the  honour  of  their  women 
folk  as  dearly  as  they  can. 

For  leader  they  have  a  man!  for  help  they  have  only 
God!  For  incentive  they  have  their  own  dignity,  their 
pride,  their  valour  .  .  .  for  weapon  they  have  the  justice 
of  their  cause,  and  the  right  to  die  like  men. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE 


AND  after  the  lapse  of  three  hundred  and  more  years  the 
imagination  projects  itself  into  that  past  so  full  of  heroic 
deeds,  so  full  of  valour  and  of  glory,  and  stands  still  won- 
dering before  the  glowing  pictures  which  the  insurrection  of 
Ghent  reveals. 

Memory — the  stern  handmaiden  of  unruly  imagination — 
goes  back  to  that  2ist  day  in  October  1572  and  recalls  the 
sounds  and  sights  which  from  early  dawn  filled  the  beau- 
tiful city  with  a  presage  of  desolation  to  come;  the  church 
bells'  melancholy  appeal,  the  deserted  streets,  the  barred  and 
shuttered  houses,  the  crowds  of  women  and  children  and 
old  men  sitting  at  prayer  in  their  own  halls,  the  peaceful 
folk  of  a  prosperous  city  quietly  preparing  for  death. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  Duke  of  Alva  rides 
out  of  the  Kasteel  with  his  staff  and  his  bodyguard,  which 
consists  of  three  squadrons  of  cavalry,  one  bandera  of 
Spanish  infantry — halberdiers  and  pikemen — and  five  com- 
panies of  harquebusiers.  The  Bandes  d'Ordonnance — the 
local  mounted  gendarmerie — are  on  duty  in  the  Vridach- 
mart,  and  thither  the  Duke  repairs  in  slow  and  stately 
majesty  through  silent  streets,  in  which  every  window  is 
shuttered,  and  where  not  one  idler  or  gaffer  stands  to  see 
him  pass  by.  A  cruel,  ironical  smile  curls  his  thin  lips 
beneath  the  drooping  moustache  as  he  notes  the  deserted 
aspect  of  the  place. 

292 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  293 

"Terror,"  he  mutters  to  himself,  "or  sulkiness.  But  they 
cannot  eat  their  money  or  their  treasures :  and  there  must 
be  a  vast  deal  of  it  behind  those  walls!" 

On  the  Vridachmart  he  halts  with  his  armed  escort 
grouped  around  him,  the  Bandes  d'Ordonnance  lining  the 
market  place,  his  standard  unfurled  behind  him,  his  drum- 
mers in  the  front.  Not  a  soul  out  upon  the  mart — not  a 
head  at  any  of  the  windows  in  the  houses  round !  It  seems 
as  if  Don  Frederic  Alvarez  de  Toledo,  Duke  of  Alva,  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  of  the  Netherlands  and  Captain-General  of 
the  Forces,  was  about  to  read  a  proclamation  to  a  city  of 
the  dead. 

A  prolonged  roll  of  drums  commands  silence  for  His 
Highness — silence  which  already  is  absolute — and  then  the 
Duke,  in  his  usual  loud  and  peremptory  voice,  demands  the 
immediate  surrender  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  now  an  out- 
law in  the  town.  And  suddenly  from  every  house  around 
the  huge  market  comes  the  answering  cry:  "Come  and 
take  him !"  And  from  every  doorway,  from  every  adjoin- 
ing street  men  come  rushing  along — with  pikes  and  halberds 
and  muskets,  and  from  end  to  end  of  the  town  the  defiant 
cry  arises :  "Come  and  take  him !" 

The  Bandes  d'Ordonnance,  hastily  summoned  by  the 
Duke  to  keep  back  the  rabble,  turn  their  arms  against  the 
Spanish  halberdiers.  Taking  up  the  cry  of  "Come  and  take 
him !"  they  go  over  in  a  body  to  the  side  of  the  insurgents. 

At  once  the  Walloon  arquebusiers  are  ordered  to  fire. 
The  rebels  respond  this  time  with  their  own  battle  cry  of 
"Orange  and  Liberty !"  and  a  death-dealing  volley  of  mus- 
ketry. Whereupon  the  melee  becomes  general ;  the  cavalry 
charges  into  the  now  serried  ranks  of  the  Orangists  who 
are  forced  momentarily  to  retreat.  They  are  pushed  back 
across  the  mart  as  far  as  the  cemetery  of  St.  Jakab.  Here 


294  LEATHERFACE 

they  unfurl  their  standard,  and  their  musketeers  hold  their 
ground  with  unshakable  valour,  firing  from  behind  the  low 
encircling  wall  with  marvellous  precision  and  quickness 
whilst  two  bodies  of  halbertmen  and  pikemen  pour  out  in 
numbers  from  inside  the  church,  and  their  artillerymen  with 
five  culverins  and  three  falconets  emerge  out  of  the  Guild 
House  of  the  Tanners  which  is  close  by,  and  take  up  a 
position  in  front  of  the  cemetery. 

Alva's  troops  soon  begin  to  lose  their  nerve.  They  were 
wholly  unprepared  for  attack,  and  suddenly  they  feel  them- 
selves both  outnumbered  and  hard-pressed.  The  Duke  him- 
self had  been  unprepared  and  had  appeared  upon  the  Vrid- 
achmart  with  less  than  two  thousand  men,  whilst  the  other 
companies  stationed  in  different  portions  of  the  city  had  not 
even  been  warned  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness. 

And  just  when  the  Spanish  cavalry  upon  the  Market 
Square  is  beginning  to  give  ground  the  cry  of  "Sauve  qui 
pent"  is  raised  somewhere  in  the  distance. 

The  Spanish  and  Walloon  soldiery  quartered  in  the  vari- 
ous guild-houses,  the  open  markets  or  private  homesteads 
were  just  as  unprepared  for  attack  as  was  the  garrison  of 
the  Kasteel.  They  had  been  promised  that  as  soon  as  the 
evening  Angelus  had  ceased  to  ring  they  could  run  wild 
throughout  the  city,  loot  and  pillage  as  much  as  they  de- 
sired, and  that  until  that  hour  they  could  do  no  better  than 
fill  their  heads  with  ale  so  as  to  be  ready  for  the  glorious 
sacking  and  destruction  of  the  richest  town  in  the  Nether- 
lands. Therefore,  a  goodly  number  of  them — fresh  from 
Mechlin — have  spent  the  afternoon  in  recalling  some  of  the 
pleasurable  adventures  there — the  trophies  gained,  the 
treasure,  the  money,  the  jewels  all  lying  ready  to  their  hand. 
Others  have  listened  open-mouthed  and  agape,  longing  to 
get  to  work  on  the  rich  city  and  its  wealthy  burghers,  and 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  295 

all  have  imbibed  a  great  quantity  of  very  heady  ale  which 
has  fuddled  their  brain  and  made  them  more  and  more 
drowsy  as  the  afternoon  wears  on.  Their  captains  too  have 
spent  most  of  the  day  in  the  taverns,  drinking  and  playing 
hazard  in  anticipation  of  loot,  and  thus  the  men  are  not  at 
the  moment  in  touch  with  their  commanders  or  with  their 
comrades,  and  all  have  laid  aside  their  arms. 

And  simultaneously  with  the  melee  in  the  Vridachmart, 
the  insurgents  have  made  a  general  attack  upon  every 
guild-house,  every  market,  every  tavern  where  soldiers  are 
quartered  and  congregated.  With  much  shouting  and  to-do 
so  as  to  give  an  exaggerated  idea  of  their  numbers  they 
fall  upon  the  unsuspecting  soldiers — Walloons  for  the  most 
part — and  overpower  and  capture  them  before  these  have 
fully  roused  themselves  from  their  afternoon  torpor;  their 
provosts  and  captains  oft  surrender  without  striking  a  blow. 
In  almost  every  instance — so  the  chroniclers  of  the  time 
aver — fifty  and  sixty  men  were  captured  by  a  dozen  or 
twenty,  and  within  half  an  hour  all  the  guild-houses  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  Orangists,  and  close  on  fifteen  hundred 
Walloons  are  prisoners  in  the  cellars  below ;  whilst  all  the 
arms  stowed  in  the  open  markets  go  to  swell  the  stores  of 
the  brave  Orange  men. 

But  some  of  the  Walloons  and  Spaniards  contrive  to 
escape  this  general  rounding  up  and  it  was  they  who  first 
raised  the  cry  of  "Sauve  qui  peut!" 

Now  it  is  repeated  and  repeated  again  and  again:  it 
echoes  from  street  to  street ;  it  gains  in  volume  and  in  power 
until  from  end  to  end  of  the  city  it  seems  to  converge 
toward  the  Vridachmart  in  one  huge,  all  dominating  wave 
of  sound:  "Sauve  qui  peut!"  and  the  tramp  of  running 
feet,  the  calls  and  cries  drown  the  clash  of  lance  and  pike. 

Suddenly  the  bowmen  of  the  Orangists  scale  the  low 


896  LEATHERFACE 

cemetery  wall  as  one  man  and  their  defence  is  turned  into 
a  vigorous  onslaught :  the  cavalry  is  forced  back  upon  the 
market  square,  they  catch  up  the  cry:  "Sauve  qui  peut! 
They  are  on  us !  Sauve  qui  peut!"  They  break  their  ranks 
— a  panic  hath  seized  them — their  retreat  becomes  a  rout. 
The  Orangists  are  all  over  the  cemetery  wall  now:  they 
charge  with  halberd  and  pike  and  force  the  Spaniards  and 
Walloons  back  and  back  into  the  narrow  streets  which 
debouch  upon  the  Schelde.  Some  are  able  to  escape  over 
the  Ketel  Briighe,  but  two  entire  companies  of  Spanish 
infantry  and  a  whole  squadron  of  cavalry  are — so  Messire 
Vaernewyck  avers — pushed  into  the  river  where  they  perish 
to  the  last  man. 


il 


At  this  hour  all  is  confusion.  The  picture  which  the 
mind  conjures  up  of  the  stricken  city  is  a  blurred  mass  of 
pikes  and  lances,  of  muskets  and  crossbows,  of  Spaniards 
and  Walloons  and  Flemings,  of  ragged  doublets  and  plumed 
hats — a  medley  of  sounds :  of  arrows  whizzing  with  a  long 
whistling  sound  through  the  air,  of  the  crash  of  muskets 
and  clash  of  lance  against  lance,  the  appeal  of  those  who 
are  afraid  and  the  groans  of  those  who  are  dying — of  fall- 
ing timber  and  sizzling  woodwork,  and  crumbling  masonry, 
and  through  it  all  the  awful  cry  of  "Sauve  qui  peut  I"  and 
the  sound  of  the  tocsin  weirdly  calling  through  the  fast 
gathering  night. 

And  amidst  this  helter-skelter  and  confusion,  the  Duke 
of  Alva  upon  his  black  charger — untiring,  grim,  terrible — 
tries  by  commands,  cajoleries,  threats,  to  rally  those  who 
flee.  But  the  voice  which  erstwhile  had  the  power  to  make 
the  stoutest  heart  quake  had  none  over  the  poltroon.  He 


3THE  RIGHT  TO  DDE  297 

shouts  and  admonishes  and  threatens  in  vain.  They  run 
and  run — cavalry,  infantry,  halbertmen  and  lancers — the 
flower  of  the  Spanish  force  sent  to  subdue  the  Netherlands 
— they  run;  and  in  the  general  vortex  of  fleeing  cavalry  the 
Duke  is  engulfed  too,  and  he  is  carried  along  as  far  as  the 
Ketel  Briighe,  where  he  tries  to  make  a  stand. 

His  doublet  and  hose  are  covered  with  mud  and  grime; 
his  mantle  is  torn,  his  hat  has  fallen  off  his  head  and  his 
white  hair  floats  around  his  face  which  is  as  pale  as  death. 

"Cowards!"  he  cries  with  fierce  and  maddened  rage: 
"would  you  fly  before  such  rabble?"  But  his  voice  has 
lost  its  magic;  they  do  not  heed  him — they  fly — past  him 
and  over  the  bridge  to  the  safety  of  Het  Spanjaard's 
Kasteel. 

Then  prudence  dictates  the  only  possible  course,  or  cap- 
ture might  become  inevitable.  Cursing  savagely  and  vow- 
ing more  bitter  revenge  than  ever  before,  the  Duke  at  last 
wheels  his  horse  round  and  he  too  hastens  back  to  the  strong- 
hold— there  to  work  out  a  plan  of  campaign  against  the  des- 
perate resistance  of  that  handful  of  Flemish  louts  whom 
His  Highness  and  all  Spanish  grandees  and  officials  so 
heartily  despise. 

ill 

Half  an  hour  later,  and  we  see  courier  after  courier 
sent  flying  from  Het  Spanjaard's  Kasteel  to  every  corner 
of  the  city. 

The  city  gates — thank  the  God  of  the  Spaniards !— have 
been  well  garrisoned  and  well  supplied  with  culverins  and 
balls,  it  is  from  there  that  help  must  come,  for — strange 
to  tell — those  louts  have  actually  invested  the  Kasteel  and 


298  LEATHERFACE 

have  the  pretension  to  lay  a  regular  siege  to  the  stronghold. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  farce?  A  couple  of  thousand  of 
an  undisciplined  rabble — they  surely  cannot  be  more — 
daring  to  pit  themselves  against  a  picked  guard!  Courier 
to  the  Waalpoort  where  Lodrono  is  in  command!  courier 
to  the  Braepoort! — Serbelloni  is  there  with  two  culverins 
of  the  newest  pattern  and  two  hundred  musketeers,  the 
like  of  whom  are  not  known  outside  the  Spanish  army! 

The  only  pity  is  that  the  bulk  of  the  forces  inside  the 
city  are  Walloons!  such  poltroons  as  they  have  already 
proved  themselves,  surrendering  in  their  hundreds  to  those 
confounded  rebels!  they  have  been  scattered  like  flies  out 
of  a  honey-pot,  and  the  entire  centre  of  the  city  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  Orangists.  But,  anyway,  the  whole  affair  is 
only  a  question  of  time;  for  the  moment  the  evening  is 
closing  in  fast  and  the  position  cannot  therefore  be  im- 
proved before  nightfall ;  but  in  the  morning  a  general  clos- 
ing-in  movement,  from  the  gates  toward  the  centre  would 
hold  the  rebels  as  in  a  claw  and  break  their  resistance 
within  an  hour.  In  the  meanwhile  the  morale  of  the  troops 
must  be  restored.  Attend  to  that,  ye  captains  at  the  city 
gates ! 

Courier  follows  courier  out  of  the  gate-house  of  the 
Kasteel:  naked  men,  ready  to  crawl,  to  swim,  or  to  dive, 
to  escape  the  vigilance  of  the  Orangist  lines.  Impossible! 
Not  one  is  able  to  cross  the  open  ground  beyond  the  castle 
moat;  the  houses  on  the  further  bank  of  the  Schelde  are 
filled  with  Orangists;  bows  and  muskets  are  levelled  from 
every  window.  The  culverins  are  down  below,  covered  by 
the  angles  of  the  cross-streets;  the  messengers  either  fall 
ere  they  reach  the  Schelde  or  are  sent  back  the  way  they 
came. 

Attend  to  the  morale  of  your  men,  ye  captains  at  the 


RIGHT  TO  DIE  299 

city  gates!  The  Duke  of  Alva,  with  some  three  or  four 
thousand  men,  is  inside  the  Kasteel,  and  no  orders  or  com- 
munication can  be  got  from  him  now  before  morning. 
And  just  like  the  flies  when  driven  out  of  the  honey,  fly, 
scared,  to  the  edges  of  the  pot,  so  the  Walloon  soldiers, 
those  who  have  escaped  from  the  guild-houses,  go  and 
seek  refuge  in  the  shadow  of  the  guard-houses  at  the 
gates.  But  the  tactics  of  the  Orangists  have  worked  upon 
their  nerves.  At  first  there  had  appeared  but  a  rabble  upon 
the  Vridachmart,  but  since  then  the  numbers  are  swelling 
visibly;  insurgents  seem  to  be  issuing  out  of  every  doorway, 
from  under  every  arch  in  the  city  .  .  .  they  rush  out  with 
muskets  and_  crossbows,  with  pikes  and  halberds ;  and  to 
the  Walloons — already  unnerved  and  fatigued — their  num- 
bers appear  to  be  endless  and  their  arms  of  a  wonderful 
precision.  Their  muskets  are  of  the  newest  pattern  such 
as  are  made  in  Germany,  and  these  they  use  with  mar- 
vellous skill,  discharging  as  many  as  ten  shots  in  one  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  none  but  the  picked  French  musketeers  have 
ever  been  known  to  do  that. 

And  they  are  led  by  a  man  who  seems  to  know  neither 
fatigue  nor  fear.  Here,  there  and  everywhere  he  appears 
to  the  Walloon  and  Spanish  soldiers  like  a  mysterious  being 
from  another  world.  He  wears  no  armour,  but  just  a  suit 
of  leather  which  envelopes  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  his 
face  is  hidden  by  a  leather  mask.  His  voice  rings  from 
end  to  end  of  the  market  place  one  moment;  the  next  he 
appears  inside  the  enclosure  of  the  cemetery.  Now  he  is  at 
St.  Pharaiilde  and  anon  back  at  St.  Jakab.  Three  of  Alva's 
couriers  hastily  despatched  to  the  commandants  at  the  vari- 
ous gate-houses  fall  to  his  pistol,  which  is  the  only  weapon 
he  carries,  and  it  is  he  who  leads  the  last  attack  on  the  Ketel 


300  LEATHERFACE 

Briighe  which  results  in  the  flight  of  Alva  and  all  his  cavalry 
to  the  safe  precincts  of  the  Kasteel. 

Before  the  evening  Angelus  has  ceased  to  ring,  the  whole 
of  the  centre  of  the  city  is  swept  clear  of  Alva's  troops, 
and  the  insurgents  have  completely  surrounded  the  Kasteel. 
Darkness  finds  the  Orangists  bivouacking  in  the  open  mar- 
kets and  along  the  banks  of  the  Schelde  and  the  Leye  with 
their  artillery  still  thundering  against  Alva's  stronghold 
and  the  gate-houses  of  the  city,  like  bursts  of  thunder- 
clouds in  a  storm.  The  mantle  of  night  has  fallen  over  a 
vast  hecatomb  of  dead  and  dying,  of  Walloons  and  Flem- 
ings and  Spaniards,  of  brothers  who  have  died  side  by  side, 
with  muskets  raised  in  fratricide  one  against  the  other, 
and  of  women  and  children  who  have  died  of  terror  and 
of  grief. 


IV 


And  memory  conjures  up  the  vision  of  the  tyrant,  the 
author  of  all  this  desolation,  riding  slowly  through  the 
portal  of  the  gate-house  into  the  yard  of  Het  Spanjaard's 
Kasteel  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  ere  the  darkness  of  the 
night  will  finally  cover  all  the  abomination  and  the  crimes, 
the  murder,  the  misery  and  the  bloodshed  which  the  insa- 
tiable tyranny  of  this  one  man  has  called  down  upon  a 
peaceable  and  liberty-loving  people. 

He  rides  with  head  erect,  although  fatigue  and  care  are 
writ  plainly  on  his  ashen  cheeks  and  the  wearied  stoop 
of  his  shoulders.  His  horse  has  received  a  wound  in  the 
flank  from  which  the  blood  oozes  and  stains  its  rider's 
boots.  Here  in  the  castle-yard,  some  semblance  of  order 
has  been  brought  about  through  the  activity  of  the  cap- 


,THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  301 

tains.  The  horses  have  been  stabled  in  the  vaulted  cellars, 
the  men  have  found  quarters  in  different  parts  of  the  Kas- 
teel;  the  musketeers  and  arquebusiers  are  up  on  the  walls, 
the  artillery  well-screened  behind  the  parapets. 

The  night  has  called  a  halt  to  men,  even  in  the  midst 
of  barren  victories  and  of  unlooked-for  defeat,  and  their 
sorrow  and  their  hurts,  their  last  sigh  of  agony  or  cry  of 
triumph  have  all  been  equally  silenced  in  her  embrace; 
but  over  the  city  the  sky  is  lurid  and  glowing  crimson 
through  a  veil  of  smoke;  the  artillery  and  musketry  have 
ceased  their  thundering ;  but  still  from  out  the  gloom  there 
come  weird  and  hideous  noises  of  hoarse  shouts  and  cries 
of  "Mercy"  and  of  "Help,"  and  from  time  to  time  the 
sudden  crash  of  crumbling  masonry  or  of  charred  beams 
falling  in. 

But  Alva  pays  no  heed  to  what  goes  on  around  him. 
He  swings  himself  wearily  out  of  the  saddle  and  gives  a 
few  brief  orders  to  the  captains  who  press  close  beside  his 
stirrup,  anxious  for  a  word  or  a  look  of  encouragement  or 
of  praise.  Then  he  curtly  asks  for  water. 

Don  Sancho  de  Avila,  captain  of  the  castle  guard,  hands 
him  the  leather  bottle  and  he  drinks  greedily. 

"We  are  in  a  tight  corner,  Monseigneur,"  whispers  de 
Avila  under  his  breath, 

"Hold  thy  tongue,  fool  I"  is  Alva's  rough  retort 

Whereupon  the  captain  stands  aside  more  convinced  than 
t>efore  that  disaster  is  in  the  air. 

The  Duke  had  been  the  last  to  turn  his  back  on  the  Ketel 
Briighe  and  to  retire  into  the  stronghold  of  the  Kasteel. 
The  banks  of  the  Schelde  by  now  are  lined  with  the  ranks 
6f  the  insurgents,  and  it  was  a  musket  shot  fired  from 
the  Vleeshhuis  that  wounded  his  horse — close  to  the  saddle- 


802  LEATHERFACE 

bow.     His  quivering  lips,  and  the  ashen  hue  of  his  face 
testify  to  his  consciousness  of  danger. 

But  his  brow  clears  perceptibly  when  he  sees  Juan  de 
Vargas  coming  out  to  meet  him. 

"Where  is  thy  daughter?"  he  asks  as  soon  as  the  other  is 
within  earshot. 

"In  chapel,  I  imagine,"  replies  de  Vargas. 

"No  woman  should  be  abroad  this  night,"  says  Alva 
dryly.  "Send  for  her  and  order  her  to  remain  within  her 
apartments." 

"She  has  been  tending  the  wounded,  and  will  wish  to  do 
so  again." 

"Well !  let  her  keep  to  the  castle-yard  then." 

"You  are  not  anxious,  Monseigneur  ?" 

"No.  Not  anxious,"  replies  Alva  with  a  fierce  oath, 
"we  can  subdue  these  rebels  of  course.  But  I  would  I 
had  brought  Spanish  soldiers  with  me,  rather  than  these 
Walloon  louts.  They  let  themselves  be  massacred  like 
sheep  or  else  run  like  poltroons.  Vitelli  declares  he  has 
lost  over  a  thousand  men  and  at  least  a  thousand  more 
are  prisoners  in  the  various  guild-houses — probably  more. 
We  ought  never  to  have  lost  ground  as  we  did,"  he  adds 
sullenly,  "but  who  would  have  thought  that  these  louts 
meant  to  fight?" 

"Who,  indeed?"  retorts  de  Vargas  with  a  sneer,  "and 
yet  here  we  are  besieged  in  our  own  citadel,  and  by  a 
handful  of  undisciplined  peasants." 

"Nay !  their  triumph  will  be  short-lived,"  exclaims  Alva 
savagely.  "We  have  over  two  thousand  men  inside  the 
Kasteel  and  surely  they  cannot  be  more  than  three  thousand 
all  told  unless  ..."  He  broke  off  abruptly,  then  continued 
more  calmly :  "Darkness  closed  in  on  us  ere  reprisals  could 
commence  ...  if  I  had  more  Spaniards  with  me,  I  would 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  303 

try  a  sortie  in  the  night  and  catch  these  oafs  in  their  sleep 
.  .  .  but  these  Walloons  are  such  damnable  fools  and  such 
abominable  cowards.  .  .  .  But  we'll  fight  our  way  through 
in  the  morning,  never  fear !" 

"In  the  meanwhile  cannot  we  send  to  Dendermonde  for 
reinforcements?  The  garrison  there  is  all  Spanish  and  .  .  ." 

"How  can  we  send?"  Alva  breaks  in  savagely.  "The 
way  is  barred  by  the  artillery  of  those  bandits — save  upon 
the  north  and  north-east,  where  that  awful  morass  nearly 
half  a  league  in  length  and  width  is  quite  impassable  in 
autumn.  No!  we  cannot  get  reinforcements  unless  we 
fight  our  way  through  first — unless  one  of  the  commandants 
at  the  gates  has  realised  the  gravity  of  the  situation, 
Lodrono  at  the  Waalpoort  has  intelligence,"  he  continues 
more  calmly,  "and  Serbelloni  hath  initiative — and  by  the 
Mass!  if  one  of  them  doth  not  get  us  quickly  out  of  this 
sorry  place,  I  will  have  them  all  hanged  at  dawn  upon  their 
gates !" 

The  Duke  of  Alva's  fierce  wrath  is  but  a  result  of  his 
anxiety.  He  holds  the '  Netherlanders  in  bitter  contempt 
'tis  true!  He  knows  that  to-morrow  perhaps  he  can  send 
to  Dendermonde  for  reinforcements  and  can  then  crush 
that  handful  of  rebels  as  he  would  a  fly  beneath  his  iron 
heel.  He  would  have  his  revenge — he  knew  that — but  he 
also  knew  that  that  revenge  would  cost  him  dear.  He  has 
fought  those  Flemish  louts,  as  he  calls  them,  too  often  and 
too  long  not  to  know  that  when  the  day  breaks  once  more 
he  will  have  to  encounter  stubborn  resistance,  dogged  deter- 
mination and  incalculable  losses  ere  he  can  subdue  and 
punish  these  men  who  have  nothing  now  to  lose  but  their 
lives — and  those  lives  his  own  tyranny  has  anyhow  made 
forfeit. 


804  LEATHERFACB 


De  Vargas  makes  no  further  comment  on  his  chief's  last 
tirade:  remembering  his  daughter,  he  goes  to  transmit  to 
her  the  order  formulated  by  the  Duke.  Lenora  is  in  the 
chapel,  and,  obedient  to  her  father's  commands,  she  rises 
from  her  knees  and  returns,  silent  and  heavy-footed,  to  her 
apartments. 

The  hours  drag  on  like  unto  centuries;  she  has  even 
lost  count  of  time ;  it  is  forty-eight  hours  now  since  she  held 
Mark's  wounded  arm  in  her  hand  and  discovered  the  awful, 
the  hideous  truth.  Since  then  she  has  not  really  lived,  she 
has  just  glided  through  the  utter  desolation  of  life,  hoping 
and  praying  that  it  might  finish  soon  and  put  an  end  to 
her  misery. 

She  had  acted,  as  she  believed,  in  accordance  with  God's 
will !  but  she  felt  that  her  heart  within  her  was  broken,  that 
nothing  ever  again  would  bring  solace  to  her  soul.  That 
long,  miserable  day  yesterday  in  Dendermonde  whilst  she 
was  waiting  for  a  reply  from  her  father  had  been  like  an 
eternity  of  torment,  and  she  had  then  thought  that  nothing 
on  earth  or  in  hell  could  be  more  terrible  to  bear.  And 
then  to-day  she  realised  that  there  was  yet  more  misery  to 
endure,  and  more  and  more  each  day  until  the  end  of  time, 
for  of  a  truth  there  would  be  no  rest  or  surcease  from 
sorrow  for  her,  even  in  her  grave. 

The  one  little  crumb  of  comfort  in  her  misery  has  been 
the  companionship  of  Crete;  the  child  was  silent  and  self- 
contained,  and  had  obviously  suffered  much  in  her  young 
life,  and  therefore  understood  the  sorrows  of  others — knew 
how  to  sympathise,  when  to  offer  words  of  comfort,  and 
when  to  be  silent. 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  805 

Though  Inez  was  a  pattern  of  devotion,  her  chattering 
soon  grated  on  Lenora's  nerves;  and  anon  when  don  Juan 
de  Vargas  agreed  to  allow  his  daughter  to  come  with  him 
to  Ghent,  Lenora  arranged  that  Crete  be  made  to  accom- 
pany her  and  that  Inez  be  sent  straight  on  to  Brussels. 
The  girl — with  the  blind  submission  peculiar  to  the  ignorant 
and  the  down-trodden — had  consented;  she  had  already 
learned  to  love  the  beautiful  and  noble  lady,  whose  pale 
face  bore  such  terrible  lines  of  sorrow,  and  her  sister 
Katrine  and  her  aunt  both  believed  that  the  child  would  be 
quite  safe  under  the  immediate  protection  of  don  Juan  de 
Vargas.  Inez  was  sent  off  to  Brussels,  and  Lenora  and 
Crete  are  now  the  only  two  women  inside  the  Kasteel. 

Together  they  flit  like  sweet,  pale  ghosts  amongst  the 
litters  of  straw  whereon  men  lie  groaning,  wounded,  often 
cursing — they  bandage  the  wounds,  bring  water  to  parched 
lips,  pass  tender,  soothing  hands  across  feverish  foreheads. 
Then,  at  times,  Lenora  takes  Crete's  rough  little  hand  in 
hers,  and  together  the  women  wander  out  upon  the  ram- 
parts. The  sentries  and  the  guard  know  them  and  they  are 
not  challenged,  and  they  go  slowly  along  the  edge  of  the 
walls,  close  to  the  parapets  and  look  down  upon  the  waters 
of  the  moat.  Here  the  dead  lie  in  their  hundreds,  cradled 
upon  the  turgid  waters,  washed  hither  through  the  narrow 
canals  by  the  more  turbulent  Schelde — their  pale,  still  faces 
turned  upwards  to  the  grey  evening  light.  And  Lenora 
wonders  if  anon  she  will  perceive  a  pair  of  grey  eyes — that 
were  wont  to  be  so  merry — turning  sightless  orbs  to  the 
dull,  bleak  sky.  She  scans  each  pale  face,  with  eyes  seared 
and  tearless,  and  not  finding  him  whom  she  seeks,  she  goes 
back  with  Crete  to  her  work  of  mercy  among  the  wounded 
only  to  return  again  and  seek  again  with  her  heart  torn 
between  the  desire  to  know  whether  the  one  man  whom 


306  LEATHERFACE 

she  hates  with  a  bitter  passion  that  fills  her  entire  soul  hath 
indeed  paid  the  blood-toll  for  the  dastardly  murder  of 
Ramon,  or  whether  God  will  punish  her  for  that  irresistible 
longing  which  possesses  her  to  hold  that  same  cowardly 
enemy — wounded  or  dying — assassin  though  he  be — for  one 
unforgettable  moment  in  her  arms. 


VI 


But  it  is  not  desolation  that  reigns  in  the  refectory  of 
the  convent  of  St.  Agneten,  for  here  the  leaders  of  the 
rebellion  have  assembled,  as  soon  as  the  guns  have  ceased 
to  roar.  The  numbers  of  their  followers  since  last  night 
have  increased  by  hundreds,  and  still  the  recruits  come 
pouring  in.  Those  men  who  but  four  days  ago  had  re- 
ceived the  Prince  of  Orange's  overtures  with  vague  prom- 
ises and  obvious  indifference,  rushed  to  arms  after  the  first 
musket  shot  had  been  fired.  Ever  since  the  attack  in  the 
Vridachmart  men  have  loudly  clamoured  for  halberts  or 
pikes  or  muskets,  and  the  captains  at  the  various  secret 
depots,  as  well  as  the  guild  of  armourers,  had  much  ado  to 
satisfy  all  those  who  longed  to  shed  their  blood  with  glory 
rather  than  be  massacred  like  insentient  cattle.  They  are 
men  who  have  fought  at  Gravelines  and  St.  Quentin,  and 
have  not  forgotten  how  to  shoulder  musket  or  crossbow  or 
how  to  handle  a  culverin.  Since  then,  fifteen  years  of 
oppression,  of  brow-beating,  of  terrorising,  fifteen  years 
under  the  yoke  of  the  Inquisition  and  of  Spanish  tyranny 
have  worn  down  the  edge  of  their  enthusiasm. 

When  Orange  begged  for  money  and  men  that  he  might 
continue  the  fight  for  liberty,  the  goodly  burghers  of  Ghent 
forgot  their  glorious  traditions  and  preferred  to  bend  their 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  307 

neck  to  the  yoke  rather  than  risk  the  fate  of  Mons  and 
of  Mechlin.  But  now  that  danger  is  within  their  doors, 
now  that  they  and  their  wives  and  daughters  are  at  the 
mercy  of  the  same  brutal  soldiery  whom  Alva  and  de 
Vargas  take  pleasure  in  driving  to  bestial  excesses  and 
inhuman  cruelties,  now  that  they  realise  that  the  fate  of 
Mechlin  is  already  inevitably  theirs — their  dormant  courage 
rises  once  more  to  its  most  sublime  altitude.  Die  they  must 
— that  they  know ! — how  can  they,  within  the  enclosure  of 
their  own  city  walls,  stand  up  against  the  armies  of  Spain, 
which  can  at  any  moment  be  brought  up  in  their  thousands 
to  reinforce  the  tyrant's  troops?  But  at  least  they  will  die 
with  muskets  or  pikes  in  their  hands,  and  their  wives  and 
daughters  will  be  spared  the  supreme  outrage  which  they 
count  worse  than  death. 

Thus  close  on  five  thousand  volunteers  file  past  their 
leaders  this  night  in  the  refectory  of  St.  Agneten  and  tender 
their  oath  of  allegiance  to  fight  to  the  last  man  for  Orange 
and  liberty.  On  the  faces  of  those  leaders — of  Messire 
van  Beveren,  of  Lievin  van  Deynse,  of  Laurence  van  Rycke 
and  Jan  van  Migrode,  there  is  plainly  writ  the  determination 
to  keep  up  the  fight  to  the  end,  and  the  knowledge  that  the 
end  can  only  be  death  for  them  all. 

But  in  Mark  van  Rycke's  deep-set  eyes  there  is  some- 
thing more  than  mere  determination.  There  is  a  latent 
belief  that  God  will  intervene — there  is  a  curious  exulta- 
tion in  their  merry  depths — a  kind  of  triumphant  hope: 
and  those  who  stand  before  him  and  swear  that  they  will 
fight  for  Orange  and  liberty  with  the  last  drop  of  their  blood 
look  him  straight  in  the  face  for  a  moment  and  then  turn 
away  feeling  less  grim  and  more  courageous  with  a  courage 
not  altogether  born  of  despair. 

The  angel  of  liberty  has  unsheathed  his  sword  and  in- 


308  LEATHERFACE 

fused  his  holy  breath  into  these  men — easy-going  burghers 
for  the  most  part,  untrained  soldiers  or  even  undisciplined 
rabble — who  have  dared  to  defy  the  might  of  Alva. 


vn 

!And  when  the  first  streak  of  dawn  folds  the  night  in  its 
embrace  and  lifts  from  off  the  stricken  city  the  veil  of 
oblivion  and  of  sleep,  we  see  some  five  thousand  Orangists 
prepared  to  stand  up  before  Alva's  forces  which  still 
number  close  on  eight.  The  streets  are  littered  with  dead, 
with  pikes  and  lances  hastily  cast  aside,  with  muskets  and 
plumed  bonnets,  with  broken  rubbish  and  wheelless  wagons, 
and  scraps  of  cloth  or  shoes  or  leather  belts. 

And  in  the  cemetery  of  St.  Jakab  the  flag  of  liberty 
still  flaunts  its  blazing  orange  in  the  pale  morning  light 
and  around  it  men  still  rally,  defiant  and  unconquered. 
The  Guild  House  of  the  Tanners  close  by  is  in  flames,  and 
the  tower  of  St.  Jakab  a  crumbling  ruin;  the  hostel  of  St. 
Juan  ten  Dullen  is  a  charred  mass  of  debris,  and  the  houses 
that  front  on  the  Vridachmart  a  fast  crumbling  heap  of 
masonry  and  glass. 

The  situation  of  the  insurgents  is  more  desperate  than 
even  Alva  knows.  Of  their  three  captains,  Pierre  van 
Overbeque  is  dead,  Jan  van  Migrode  severely  wounded, 
and  Laurence  van  Rycke  exhausted.  Of  their  company 
of  halberdiers,  all  the  provosts  except  two  have  fallen. 
The  investing  lines  around  the  Kasteel  have  five  officers 
killed  and  twenty  of  their  artillerymen  have  fallen.  Six 
hundred  of  their  wounded  encumber  the  Vridachmart.  The 
narrow  streets  which  debouch  upon  the  gates  are  deserted 
save  by  the  dead. 


THE  RIGHT  TQ  DIE  809 

But  as  soon  as  the  rising  day  hath  touched  the  ruined 
tower  of  St.  Jakab  with  its  pale  silvery  light,  Mark  van 
Rycke,  their  commander,  intrepid  and  undaunted,  wakes 
the  sleeping  echoes  with  his  cry:  "Burghers  of  Ghent! 
to  arms !  we  are  not  vanquished  yet  I" 

A  volley  of  arrows  from  the  crossbowmen  upon  the 
Waalpoort  answers  the  defiant  cry:  one  arrow  pierces  a 
loose  corner  of  Mark's  doublet, 

"Van  Rycke!"  cries  the  provost  who  stands  nearest  to 
him,  "spare  thyself  in  the  name,  oi  God.  I  What  shall  we 
do  if  you  fall?" 

And  Mark,  unmoved,  the  fire  of  enthusiasm  unquenched 
in  his  eyes,  cries  loudly  in  response: 

"Do?  What  alone  can  burghers  of  Ghent  do  in  face  of 
what  lies  before  them  if  they  give  in?  Do?  Why,  die  like 
heroes — to  the  last  man." 

His  doublet  hangs  from  him  in  rags,  his  hose  is  torn,  his 
head  bare,  his  face  black  with  powder.  He  grasps  musket 
or  crossbow,  halberd,  lance  or  pike,  whichever  is  readiest 
to  his  hand,  whichever  company  hath  need  of  a  leader;  a 
beam  from  the  burning  building  has  fallen  within  a  yard 
of  him  and  singed  his  hair:  "Heroes  of  Ghent!"  he  cries, 
"which  of  you  will  think  of  giving  in?" 

The  morning  Angelus  begins  to  ring.  For  a  few  minutes 
while  the  pure  clear  tones  of  the  church  bells  reverberate 
above  the  din  of  waking  men  and  clash  of  arms,  Spaniards 
and  Walloons  and  Flemings  pause  in  their  hate  and  their 
fight  in  order  to  pray. 

Up  in  the  council  chamber  of  the  Kasteel,  Alva  and 
de  Vargas  and  del  Rio  on  their  knees  mock  the  very  God 
whom  they  invoke,  and  when  the  last  "Amen!"  has  left 
their  lips,  Alva  struggles  to  his  feet  and  murmurs  fiercely : 

"And  now  for  revenge!" 


310  LEATHERFACB 

Through  the  wide  open  windows,  he  gazes  upon  the 
spires  and  roofs  of  the  beautiful  city  which  he  hath  sworn 
to  destroy.  Already  many  of  these  are  crumbling  ruins, 
and  from  far  away  near  the  church  of  St.  Jakab  a  column 
of  black  smoke  rises  upwards  to  the  sky.  The  windows 
give  upon  an  iron  balcony  which  runs  along  the  entire 
width  of  the  Meeste-Toren :  from  this  balcony  an  open 
staircase  leads  down  into  tKe  castle-yard.  The  yard  and 
vaulted  cellars  opposite  are  filled  with  horses,  and  the 
corridors  of  the  palace  swarm  with  men.  And  as  the  Duke, 
anon,  steps  out  upon  the  balcony  he  sees  before  him  the 
five  breaches  in  the  castle-walls  which  testify  to  the  power 
of  the  insurgents'  culverins.  He  hears  the  groans  of  the 
wounded  who  lie  all  round  the  walls  upon  the  litters  of 
straw,  he  sees  the  faces  of  innumerable  dead,  floating  wide- 
eyed  upon  the  waters  of  the  moat,  and  the  carcasses  of 
horses  in  the  yard  which  add  to  the  horror  of  the  scene  by 
their  pathetic  hideousness. 

And  seeing  all  this,  he  hath  not  a  thought  of  pity  for 
all  the  innocent  whom  he  vows  to  punish  along  with  the 
guilty. 

"Now  for  revenge!''  he  reiterates  fiercely  and  shakes 
a  clenched  fist  toward  the  tower  of  St.  Jakab,  "and  if 
only  I  had  my  Spaniards  with  me,  we  would  have  burned 
the  town  down  before  now." 


The  day  drags  on  in  the  weary  monotony  of  incessant 
firing,  incessant  fighting — constant  attacks  to  be  repulsed, 
numbers  of  wounded  to  be  added  to  those  who  already 
encumber  the  yard — numbers  of  dead  to  be  added  to  those 
who  encumber  the  waters  of  the  moat. 


JHE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  311 

The  finest  general  the  victorious  Spanish  armies  have 
ever  known  is  besieged  in  his  stronghold  by  a  few  hundred 
undisciplined,  untaught,  unseasoned  rebel  troops.  What 
is  happening  beyond  the  wide  tract  of  open  ground  which 
lies  all  round  the  Kasteel  the  Duke  cannot  get  to  know. 
The  Orangist  lines  are  all  round  him  screened  by  the  build- 
ings which  face  the  further  bank  of  the  Schelde;  and 
though  his  culverins  have  turned  the  magnificent  Vleeshhuis 
into  a  smoking  ruin,  those  of  the  Orangists  have  made 
serious  havoc  in  the  castle  walls. 

The  last  onslaught  delivered  a  couple  of  hours  after 
noonday  resulted  in  the  crumbling  together  of  three  of  the 
widest  breaches  already  existing,  making  one  huge  yawn- 
ing cavity,  which  has  to  be  strongly  and  persistently  de- 
fended— a  defence  which  exacts  an  enormous  toll  of 
wounded  and  dead  every  time  the  Orangist  artillery  and 
musketry  return  to  the  attack. 

"We  cannot  hold  out  till  nightfall!"  Captain  de  Avila 
cries  despairingly.  "We  have  lost  two  hundred  men  in  less 
than  two  hundred  minutes.  If  we  get  no  help  we  are 
•undone!" 

"Help!"  cries  Alva  fiercely,  "where  are  we  to  get  help 
from  if  those  oafs  at  the  city  gates  do  not  find  us  some?" 

On  the  north-east  side  of  the  Kasteel  lies  the  open  way 
to  Dendermonde — where  Captain  Gonzalo  de  Bracamonte  is 
quartered  with  a  garrison  of  five  thousand  men,  and  be- 
tween that  open  way  of  salvation,  and  those  who  hold  the 
Kasteel,  there  lies  a  league  of  spongy  morass.  The  way 
through  it  is  free  from  the  Orangist  musketry.  Nature* 
alone  bars  it,  and  does  so  effectually. 

Three  times  to-day  has  Alva  tried  to  send  runners 
through  that  way.  Stripped  to  the  skin  they  are  lowered 
by  ropes  from  the  parapet,  and  at  first  find  firm  foothold 


812  LEATHERFACE 

at  the  base  of  the  walls.  From  up  above  Alva  and  his 
captains  watch  the  naked  men  who  walk  on  boldly,  proud 
of  their  achievement;  their  skins  shine  like  metal  beneath 
the  grey,  autumnal  sky  on  which  the  smouldering  ruins  of 
a  devastated  city  have  painted  a  crimson  tint.  Alva  watches 
them  until  they  appear  as  mere  black  dots  upon  the  low 
horizon — tiny  black  specks  that  move  for  a  while,  slowly 
along,  with  arms  swinging  as  the  mud  gets  deeper  and 
walking  heavier.  Then  suddenly  the  speck  ceases  to  move 
.  .  .  the  arms  are  thrown  up  with  frantic  wheelings  and 
beatings  of  the  air  ...  sometimes  the  speck  will  turn 
and  move  back  slowly  toward  the  castle,  but  more  often 
than  not  it  grows  shorter  and  shorter  still,  till  even  the  tall 
arms  disappear — engulfed  in  the  morass. 

Three  times  have  men  been  sent  out  on  this  errand  of 
death  .  .  .  three  or  four  at  a  time  .  .  .  twice  has  one  man 
come  back  from  those  hideous,  yawning  jaws  of  a  loath- 
some death — livid,  covered  with  green  slime,  trembling  in 
every  limb  as  if  stricken  with  ague.  After  that,  men  refuse 
to  go  ...  Alva  commands  and  threatens  .  ,  .  another 
batch  go  off  ...  another  spectre  returns  from  the  shores 
of  another  world.  .  .  .  Then  the  men  are  obstinate  .  .  . 
to  insist,  to  command,  to  threaten  further  would  provoke 
mutiny,  and  the  stronghold  once  more  lapses  into  utter 
isolation. 

The  din  of  musketry  from  end  to  end  of  the  city  drowns 
every  other  sound,  smoke  from  smouldering  ruins  obscures 
the  view  beyond  the  Schelde.  What  has  happened  in  the 
centre  of  the  city  during  all  these  hours,  whilst  the  high 
and  mighty  Lieutenant-Governor  and  Captain-General  of 
the  Force  of  Occupation  is  a  virtual  prisoner  in  the  hands 
of  the  rebels,  he  himself  cannot  possibly  tell. 

"The  rebels  have  lost  more  heavily  than  we  have,"  says 


JTHE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  313 

de  Avila,  whilst  he  snatches  a  brief  rest  during  the  after- 
noon, "and  they  must  be  getting  short  of  powder." 

"So  are  we,"  says  Alva  grimly. 

"Surely  Captain  Lodrono  has  come  in  touch  with  Cap- 
tain Serbelloni  by  now.  It  is  inconceivable  that  the  garri- 
sons at  the  gate-houses  can  do  nothing." 

"Those  Netherlander  are  fighting  like  devils,"  says  de 
Vargas  with  his  evil  sneer,  "they  have  nothing  to  lose  .  .  . 
they  know  that  they  are  doomed,  every  man,  woman  and 
child  of  them  .  .  .  aye!  if  I  had  my  way,  every  man  who 
speaks  the  Flemish  tongue." 

"Aye!"  retorts  Alva  with  a  curse,  "but  in  the  mean- 
while, if  Serbelloni  or  Lodrono  have  not  sent  a  runner  to 
Dendermonde,  those  Flemish  louts  will  carry  this  castle  by 
storm,  and  when  I  am  a  prisoner  in  their  hands,  they'll 
either  slaughter  us  all  or  dictate  their  own  terms." 

"Ah !"  says  Avila  quietly,  "they  have  not  got  the  Kasteel 
yet." 

"How  long  can  we  hold  out?"  queries  de  Vargas,  who 
at  Alva's  grimly  prophetic  words,  had  become  livid  with 
fear. 

"Unless  those  rebels  have  lost  more  heavily  than  we 
hope,  we  cannot  hold  out  more  than  another  few  hours. 
We  still  have  three  thousand  men  and  a  goodly  stock  of 
powder.  .  .  .  The  breach  we  can  defend  with  stones  of 
which  there  is  a  large  store;  we  killed  or  wounded  over  a 
hundred  of  those  louts  at  their  last  assault  ...  we  can 
go  on  like  this  until  nightfall.  But  if  at  dawn  they  attack 
us  again  in  full  force — and  we  lose  many  more  men  to-day 
...  why  ..  ." 

"Hold  thy  tongue,"  cried  Alva  fiercely,  for  at  the  senior 
captain's  words,  many  of  the  younger  ones  have  exchanged 
quick,  significant  glances.  "Shall  I  have  to  hang  some  of 


314  LEATHERFACE 

my  captains  so  as  to  discourage  the  men  from  playing  the 
coward  too?" 


IX 


The  evening  Angelus  has  just  ceased  to  ring,  and  a  man 
is  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  Captain-General;  he  is 
naked,  and  his  body  is  covered  with  sticky  mud  and  dripping 
with  slime;  his  face  is  hardly  recognisable  through  a  thick 
mask  of  sweat  and  grime. 

"I  come  from  Braepoort,  Magnificence,"  he  says  in  a 
low,  quaking  voice,  for  obviously  he  is  all  but  exhausted. 
"I  ran  round  the  town,  and  struck  into  the  morass  .  .  . 
I  am  a  man  of  Ghent  ...  I  know  a  track  .  .  .  that's  why 
Captain  Serbelloni  sent  me." 

"With  what  news?"  queries  Alva  impatiently. 

"None  too  good,  Magnificence,"  replies  the  man.  "The 
commandants  at  the  gates  are  sorely  pressed  ...  I  hailed 
the  guard  at  the  Brugge  and  Waalpoorts  as  I  passed  .  .  . 
they  are  isolated  .  .  .  every  one  of  them  .  .  .  and  each 
separately  attacked  by  bands  of  rebels  who  fight  desperately. 
.  .  .  The  Braepoort  cannot  hold  out  much  longer  .  .  . 
Captain  Serbelloni  asks  for  help  even  before  nightfall." 

"Help?"  vociferates  Alva  savagely,  "how  can  I  send 
them  help?  We  are  besieged  in  this  accursed  place;  we 
cannot  fight  our  way  through  the  rabble,  unless  some  of 
those  oafs  at  the  city  gates  come  to  our  assistance.  Help? 
'Tis  I  want  help  here." 

"The  gates  are  being  bravely  defended,  Magnificence. 
But  the  rebels  still  hold  the  centre  of  the  city.  They  have 
seized  'Sgravensteen.  Two  thousand  Walloons  have  sur- 
rendered to  them.  ,  ." 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  315 

"Two  thousand !"  exclaims  Alva  with  a  fierce  oath,  "the 
miserable  poltroons." 

"At  least  three  thousand  rebels  threaten  the  Kasteel." 

"I  know  that  well  enough,"  retorts  Alva  roughly.  "They 
have  made  five  breaches  in  our  wall!  .  ,  .  the  bandits! 
Help!  'tis  I  want  help!"  he  reiterates  with  a  loud  curse. 

"Captain  Serbelloni  bade  me  tell  your  Highness  that  he 
hath  sent  to  Dendermonde  for  immediate  reinforcements. 
He  hoped  your  Highness  would  forgive  him  if  he  hath 
done  wrong." 

Alva's  eyes  flash  a  look  of  satisfaction,  but  he  makes  no 
immediate  comment.  Not  even  his  colleagues — not  even 
de  Vargas  his  intimate — should  see  how  immense  is  his 
relief. 

"Did  he  send  a  mounted  man,"  he  asks  after  a  while, 
"or  two  ?  Two  would  be  better  in  case  a  man  gets  hurt  on 
the  way." 

"The  Captain  sent  three  men,  Magnificence.  But  they 
had  to  go  on  foot.  We  have  no  horses  at  the  gates.  The 
insurgents  rounded  them  all  in  long  before  nightfall.  But 
the  men  hope  to  pick  up  one  or  more  on  their  way." 

Alva,  as  is  his  wont,  smothers  a  savage  curse.  The 
small  body  of  Spanish  cavalry  which  he  had  with  him  in 
the  town  had  been  the  first  to  run  helter-skelter  over  the 
Ketel  Briighe  into  the  Kasteel,  whilst  a  whole  squadron  per- 
ished in  the  Schelde.  One  of  those  horses  down  there  in 
the  yard  would  mean  reinforcements  within  a  few  hours. 

"When  did  the  messenger  start  for  Dendermonde?"  he 
asks  again. 

"When  the  Angelus  began  to  ring  at  noon,  Magnifi- 
cence." 

"Why  not  before?" 

"The  captain  was  undecided.     He  thought  that  every 


S16  LEATHERFACE 

moment  would  bring  help  or  orders  from  your  Highness. 
He  also  tried  to  send  messengers  to  Captain  Lodrono  at 
the  Waalpoort,  but  the  messengers  must  all  have  been 
intercepted  and  killed,  for  no  help  came  from  anywhere." 

"Dost  know  if  the  message  which  thy  captain  sent  to 
Dendermonde  was  couched  in  urgent  terms  ?" 

"I  believe  so,  Magnificence.  The  senor  captain  was 
growing  very  anxious." 

Once  more  the  Duke  is  silent;  his  brows  contract  in  an 
anxious  frown.  His  active  brain  is  busy  in  making  a 
mental  calculation  as  to  how  soon  those  reinforcements 
can  arrive.  "The  men  will  have  to  walk  to  Dendermonde," 
he  muses,  "and  cannot  get  there  before  nightfall.  .  .  .  the 
commandant  may  start  at  night  .  .  .  but  he  may  tarry 
till  the  morrow.  ...  It  will  be  the  end  of  the  day  before 
he  and  his  men  are  here  .  .  .  and  in  the  meanwhile  .  .  ." 

"At  the  Braepoort?"  he  queries  curtly,  "how  many  of 
the  guard  have  been  killed  ?" 

"We  had  a  hundred  and  twenty  killed  when  I  left,  Mag- 
nificence, and  over  three  hundred  lay  wounded  on  the 
bridge.  We  have  suffered  heavily,"  adds  the  man  after  a 
slight  moment  of  hesitation — the  hesitation  of  the  bearer  of 
evil  tidings  who  dreads  his  listener's  wrath. 

Alva  remains  silent  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  he  says 
abruptly:  "Dost  know  that  I  have  half  a  mind  to  kill  thee, 
for  all  the  evil  news  which  thou  hast  brought?" 

Then  he  laughs  loudly  and  long  because  the  man,  with 
a  quick  cry  of  terror  has  made  a  sudden  dash  for  the  open 
window,  and  is  brought  back  by  the  lance  of  the  provost 
on  guard  upon  the  balcony.  The  pleasure  of  striking 
terror  into  the  hearts  of  people  has  not  yet  palled  upon  his 
Magnificence. 

"If 'I  had  a  whole  mind  to  kill  thee,"  he  continues,  "thou 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  317 

wouldst  have  no  chance  of  escape.  So  cease  thy  trembling 
and  ask  the  provost  there  to  give  thee  water  to  cleanse 
thyself,  food  to  put  inside  thy  belly  and  clothing  wherewith 
to  hide  thy  nakedness.  Then  come  back  before  me.  I'll 
give  thee  a  chance  to  save  thy  life  by  doing  a  service  to 
thy  King." 

He  makes  a  sign  to  one  of  the  provosts,  who  seizes  the 
man  roughly  by  the  shoulders  and  incontinently  bundles 
him  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  council  chamber  no  one  dares  to  speak.  His  High- 
ness has  become  moody,  and  has  sunk  upon  his  high-backed 
chair  where  he  remains  inert  and  silent,  wrapped  in  gloomy 
meditations,  and  when  he  is  in  one  of  those  sullen  moods 
no  one  dares  to  break  in  on  his  thoughts — no  one  except 
sefior  de  Vargas,  and  he  too  is  as  preoccupied  as  his  chief. 


"De  Vargas!"  says  Alva  abruptly  after  a  while,  "dost 
mind  that  to-morrow  is  not  only  Sunday,  but  the  feast  of 
the  Blessed  Redeemer  and  a  holy  day  of  obligation?" 

"Aye,  Monseigneur,"  replied  de  Vargas  unctuously,  "I 
am  minded  that  if  we  do  not  go  to  Mass  to-morrow,  those 
of  us  who  die  unabsolved  of  the  sin  will  go  to  hell." 

"The  men  are  grumbling  already,"  breaks  in  don  Sancho 
de  Avila,  captain  of  the  bodyguard.  "They  say  they  will 
not  fight  to-morrow  if  they  cannot  go  to  Mass." 

"Those  Walloons  .  .'  ." 

"Not  only  the  Walloons,  Monseigneur,"  rejoins  de  Avila, 
"the  Spaniards  are  better  Catholics  than  all  these  Nether- 
landers.  They  fear  to  die  with  a  mortal  sin  upon  their 
soul." 


818  LEATHERFACE 

Nothing  more  is  said  just  then ;  the  grey  day  is  already 
yielding  to  dusk;  the  fire  of  artillery  and  musketry  is  less 
incessant,  the  clash  of  pike  and  halberd  can  be  heard  more 
distinctly,  and  also  the  cries  of  the  women  and  the  groans 
of  the  wounded  and  the  dying. 

A  few  moments  later  a  tall,  lean  man  in  the  borrowed 
dress  of  a  Spanish  halberdier  is  ushered  into  the  presence 
of  the  council.  Water,  food  and  clothes  have  effected  a 
transformation  which  Alva  surveys  critically,  and  not  with- 
out approval.  The  man — lean  of  visage  and  clean  of  limb 
— looks  intelligent  and  capable;  the  Duke  orders  him  to 
advance. 

"  Tis  good  for  thee,"  he  says  dryly,  "that  thy  death  is 
more  unprofitable  to  me  than  thy  life.  I  want  a  messenger 
.  .  .  art  afraid  to  go  to  the  miserable  wretch  who  dares  to 
lead  a  rebel  horde  against  our  Sovereign  King?" 

"I  am  afraid  of  nothing,  Magnificence,"  replies  the  man 
quietly,  "save  your  Highness's  wrath." 

"Dost  know  where  to  find  the  rebel  ?" 

"Where  musket-balls  fly  thickest,  your  Highness." 

"Then  tell  him,"  says  Alva  curtly,  "that  as  soon  as  the 
night  has  fallen  and  the  fire  of  culverins  and  muskets  has 
ceased,  I  will  have  the  drawbridge  at  the  south-east  of 
this  castle  lowered,  and  I  will  come  forward  to  meet  him, 
accompanied  by  my  captains  and  the  members  of  my  coun- 
cil. Tell  him  to  walk  forward  and  meet  me  until  we  are 
within  earshot  of  one  another :  and  to  order  his  torch- 
bearers  to  throw  the  light  of  their  torches  upon  his  face: 
then  will  I  put  forward  a  proposal  which  hath  regard  to  the 
eternal  salvation  of  every  man,  woman  and  child  inside  this 
city.  Tell  him  to  guard  his  person  as  he  thinks  fit,  but  tell 
him  also  that  from  the  ramparts  of  this  Kasteel  three  hun- 
dred muskets  will  be  aimed  at  his  head,  and  at  the  slightest 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  319 

suspicion  of  treachery  the  order  will  be  given  to  fire.  Dost 
understand  ?" 

"Every  word,  your  Highness,"  says  the  man  simply. 

"Then  go  in  peace,"  concludes  Alva,  and  the  man  is  dis- 
missed. 


XI 


An  hour  later  the  drawbridge  at  the  south-east  gate  of 
the  Kasteel  was  lowered.  Twilight  had  now  faded  into 
night ;  the  dull,  grey  day  had  yielded  to  black,  impenetrable 
night.  Here  and  there  far  away  in  the  heart  of  the  city 
lurid  lights  shot  through  the  darkness,  and  every  now  and 
then  a  column  of  vivid  flame  would  strike  up  to  the  dense 
black  sky,  and  for  a  while  illumine  the  ruined  towers,  the 
shattered  roofs  and  broken  chimneys  around  ere  it  fell 
again,  sizzling  in  the  damp  atmosphere. 

The  Duke  of  Alva  rode  out  in  the  gloom ;  he  was  seated 
upon  his  black  charger,  and  was  preceded  by  his  torch- 
bearers  and  by  his  bodyguard  of  archers.  Behind  him 
walked  his  captains  and  the  members  of  his  council.  The 
procession  slowly  wended  its  way  under  the  portal  of  the 
gate-house  and  then  over  the  bridge.  At  the  farthest  end 
of  the  bridge  the  Duke  reined  in  his  horse,  and  his  body- 
guard, his  captains  and  the  members  of  his  council  all 
stood  behind  him  so  that  he  immediately  faced  the  tract 
of  open  ground  beyond  which  were  the  Orangist  lines. 

The  flickering  light  of  resin  torches  illumined  the  com- 
manding figure  of  the  Duke,  dressed  in  sombre  clothes  and 
silk-lined  mantle,  and  wearing  breast  and  back  plates  of 
armour,  with  huge  tassets  over  his  wide  breeches  and  open 
steel  morion  on  his  head.  To  right  and  left  far  away, 


820  LEATHERFACE 

toward  the  open  country,  the  bivouac  fires  of  the  insurgents 
gleamed  weirdly  in  the  night. 

All  noise  of  fighting  had  ceased,  and  a  strange  silence 
had  fallen  over  the  city — a  silence  which  hid  many  secrets 
of  horror  and  of  despair. 

Suddenly  something  began  to  move,  something  that  at 
first  appeared  darker  than  the  darkness  of  the  night ;  a  few 
moments  later  it  appeared  as  a  speck  of  ruddy  light  which 
moved  quickly — now  toward  the  castle  bridge ;  anon  it  was 
distinguishable  as  a  group  of  men — a  dozen  or  so — with 
a  couple  of  torchbearers  on  in  front,  the  light  from  whose 
torches  fell  full  upon  a  tall  figure  which  stood  out  boldly 
amongst  the  others.  Now  the  group  came  to  a  halt  less 
than  fifty  paces  away,  and  those  upon  the  bridge  could  see 
that  tall  figure  quite  clearly ;  a  man  in  ragged  doublet  and 
hose,  with  grimy  hands  and  face  blackened  with  powder; 
he  held  his  head  very  erect  and  wore  neither  helmet  nor 
armour. 

At  sight  of  him,  de  Vargas  gave  a  cry  of  rage  and 
surprise. 

"Mark  van  Rycke  1"  he  exclaimed.  "What  hath  he  to  do 
with  it  all?" 

"Thy  daughter's  husband,"  said  Alva  coolly.  "Nay,  then 
we'll  soon  make  her  a  widow." 

But  to  the  Orangists  he  called  peremptorily :  "  'Tis  with 
the  rebel  whom  ye  call  Leatherface  that  I  wish  to  speak." 

"I  have  been  known  as  Leatherface  hitherto,"  retorts 
Mark  van  Rycke  coolly.  "Speak  without  fear.  I  listen." 

Vargas'  cry  of  rage  was  echoed  by  more  than  one  Spanish 
captain  present.  They  remembered  Mark  van  Rycke,  the 
ne'er-do-well  with  whom  they  had  oft  drunk  and  jested 
in  the  taverns  of  Ghent  and  Brussels,  aye !  and  before  whom 
they  had  oft  talked  openly  of  their  plans. 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE 

"Spy  as  well  as  rebel !"  they  cried  out  to  him  wrathfully. 

"Pity  he  cannot  hang  more  than  once,"  added  de  Vargas 
with  bitter  spite. 

But  to  Alva  the  personality  of  the  rebel  was  of  no  con- 
sequence. What  cared  he  if  the  man  was  called  van  Rycke 
and  was  the  husband  of  his  friend's  daughter?  There 
stood  an  abominable  rebel  who  had  gained  by  treachery  and 
stealth  a  momentary  advantage  over  the  forces  of  his 
suzerain  Lord  the  King,  and  who  would  presently  suffer 
along  with  the  whole  of  this  insurgent  city  the  utmost 
rigour  of  Alva's  laws!  In  the  meanwhile  he  deigned  to 
parley  with  the  lout,  for  he  was  sore  pressed  inside  the 
Kasteel,  and  the  messengers  who  were  speeding  to  Dender- 
monde  for  reinforcements  could  not  possibly  bring  help  for 
at  least  another  four-and-twenty  hours. 

Therefore,  now  he — the  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the 
Netherlands  and  Captain-General  of  His  Majesty's  forces 
— demanded  attention  in  the  name  of  the  King. 

"Do  ye  come  as  traitors?"  he  asked  in  a  loud  voice,  "or 
as  loyal  men?  If  as  traitors  ye  shall  die  ere  ye  advance 
another  step.  But  if  ye  are  loyal  men,  then  listen,  for  I 
will  speak  with  you  in  amity  and  peace." 

"Thou  knowest  best,  Magnificence,"  came  Mark's  clear 
voice  out  of  the  group,  "if  we  are  loyal  men  or  no.  Thou 
didst  send  an  emissary  to  us ;  he  goeth  back  to  thee  unhurt : 
thou  standest  before  our  bowmen  even  now  and  not  an 
arrow  hath  touched  thine  armour.  We  are  loyal  men  and 
are  prepared  to  listen  to  what  ye  have  to  say." 

"Listen  then,"  resumed  the  Duke  curtly,  "but  let  no  false 
hopes  lure  ye  the  while.  Ye  are  rebels  and  are  under  the 
ban  of  the  law.  Nothing  but  unconditional  surrender  can 
win  mercy  for  your  city." 

"Nothing  but  humility  can  save  thee  from  the  wrath 


822  LEATHERFACE 

of  God,"  retorted  Mark  boldly.  "We  are  unconquered, 
Magnificence !  and  'tis  thou  who  askest  to  parley — not  we." 

"I  do  not  ask,"  retorted  Alva  loudly,  "I  demand." 

"Then  since  'tis  the  vanquished  who  demand,  let  us  hear 
what  they  wish  to  say." 

"To-morrow  is  Sunday,  rebel,  hadst  forgotten  that?" 

"No,  tyrant,  I  had  not.  God  hath  forbidden  us  to  work 
on  that  day,  but  not  to  fight  against  oppression." 

"He  hath  also  enjoined  us  to  attend  Mass  on  His  day. 
Are  ye  heretics  that  ye  care  naught  for  that  ?" 

"We  care  for  the  Lord's  Day  as  much  as  Spaniards  do." 

"Yet  will  ye  prevent  His  people  from  praying  in  peace !" 

"We'll  pray  for  those  whom  thy  tyranny  keeps  locked  up 
within  thy  castle  walls." 

"Not  so,"  exclaims  Alva,  "my  men  are  free  to  go :  they 
will  attend  Mass  in  the  churches  of  this  city.  Will  you 
butcher  them  whilst  they  are  at  prayer?" 

There  was  no  immediate  reply  to  this  taunt,  but  from 
the  insurgents'  ranks  there  came  a  loud,  warning  call : 

"Do  not  heed  him,  van  Rycke !  Remember  Egmont  and 
Home!  Do  not  fall  into  the  tyrant's  trap!  There's 
treachery  in  every  word  he  says." 

Alva  waited  in  silence  until  the  tumult  had  subsided. 
He  knew  what  he  wanted  and  why  he  wanted  it.  A  few 
hours'  respite  would  mean  salvation  for  him  ...  a  few 
hours!  .  .  .  and  the  garrison  of  Dendermonde  would  be 
on  its  way  to  Ghent.  He  wanted  to  stay  the  hand  of  time 
for  those  few  hours  and  had  invented  this  treacherous 
means  to  gain  that  end. 

"  'Tis  no  wonder,"  he  said  quietly  as  soon  as  the  clamour 
on  the  Orangist  side  was  stilled,  "that  ye  who  are  traitors 
should  seek  treachery  everywhere.  What  I  propose  is  loyal 
and  just  and  in  accordance  with  God's  own  decrees.  If 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  323 

ye  refuse,  ye  do  so  at  the  peril  of  thousands  of  immortal 
souls." 

"We  know  not  yet  what  it  is  ye  ask,"  said  van  Rycke 
quietly. 

"We  demand  a  truce  until  the  evening  Angelus  to-mor- 
row— the  Lord's  Day  which  is  also  the  feast  of  the  Holy 
Redeemer.  We  demand  the  right  to  attend  Mass  in  peace 
.  .  .  and  in  exchange  we'll  agree  not  to  molest  you  whilst 
ye  pray  and  whilst  ye  bury  your  dead." 

"A  truce  until  the  evening  Angelus,"  broke  in  Mark 
hotly,  "so  that  ye  may  send  for  reinforcements  to  the 
nearest  garrison  town.  We  refuse !" 

"You  refuse?"  retorted  Alva.  "For  two  days  and  a 
night  ye  have  raised  your  arms  against  your  lawful  King. 
If  you  fight  to-morrow  you  will  add  sacrilege  to  your  other 
crimes." 

"And  thou,  treachery  to  thine!"  said  van  Rycke  boldly. 
"Whence  this  desire  to  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  day,  tyrant? 
Wouldst  thou  have  ceased  to  destroy,  to  pillage  or  to  out- 
rage this  day  if  we  had  not  raised  our  arms  in  our  own 
defence?" 

"Well  said,  van  Rycke!"  cried  the  Orangists. 

"The  immortal  souls  which  your  obstinacy  would  send 
to  hell,"  said  the  Duke  of  Alva,  "will  return  and  haunt  you 
till  they  drag  you  back  with  them." 

"Can  you  not  pray  in  your  Kasteel?"  retorted  Mark. 

"We  have  no  priest  to  say  Mass  for  us." 

"We  will  send  you  one." 

"We  have  no  consecrated  chapel." 

"The  priest  will  say  Mass  in  your  castle-yard,  beneath 
the  consecrated  dome  of  heaven.  The  Walloon  prisoners 
whom  we  have  taken  are  receiving  the  ministry  of  our 
priests  in  the  guild-houses  where  they  are  held," 


324  LEATHERFACE 

"Nay!  but  such  makeshift  would  not  satisfy  the  children 
of  Spain  who  are  also  the  chosen  children  of  the  Church. 
But,"  continued  Alva  with  a  sudden  assumption  of  indif- 
ference, "I  have  made  my  proposal.  Take  it  or  not  as  ye 
list.  But  remember  this:  the  dead  who  lie  unburied  in 
your  streets  will  have  their  revenge.  Pestilence  and  disease 
will  sweep  your  city  of  your  children,  as  soon  as  we  have 
vanquished  your  men." 

"Treachery!"  cried  some  of  the  Orangists,  "do  not  heed 
him,  van  Rycke." 

But  of  a  truth  the  cry  was  not  repeated  quite  so  insis- 
tently this  time.  Alva's  last  argument  was  an  unanswer- 
able one.  Pestilence  these  days  was  a  more  formidable 
foe  than  the  finest  artillery  wielded  by  a  powerful  enemy: 
there  were  over  two  thousand  dead  lying  unburied  in  the 
city  at  this  hour :  as  the  tyrant  said  very  truly,  these  would 
take  a  terrible  revenge.  And  there  was  something  too  in 
the  sanctity  of  the  Lord's  Day  which  touched  the  hearts 
of  these  men  who  were  deeply  religious  and  devout  and 
had  a  profound  respect  for  the  dictates  of  the  Church. 
Most  of  them  were  Catholics — the  importance  of  attending 
Mass  on  the  Lord's  Day  on  pain  of  committing  a  deadly 
sin  weighed  hard  upon  their  conscience.  Alva  was  quick  to 
note  the  advantage  which  he  had  already  gained,  and  when 
the  first  dissentient  voice  among  the  Orangists  was  heard 
to  say :  "A  truce  can  do  no  harm  and  'twere  sacrilege  to 
fight  on  the  Lord's  Day,"  he  broke  in  quickly: 

"Nay!  'tis  not  fighting  ye  would  do,  but  murder.  Aye! 
murder  on  the  Day  of  the  Holy  Redeemer  who  died  that 
ye  should  live.  .  .  .  My  men  are  Catholic  to  a  man!  not 
one  of  them  but  would  far  rather  let  himself  be  butchered 
than  commit  a  deadly  sin.  Rebels,  who  have  outraged 
your  King,  to-morrow  morning  the  church  bells  will  be 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  325 

calling  the  faithful  to  the  Holy  Sacrifice:  the  truce  which 
you  refuse  to  hold  with  us  we  will  grant  you  of  our  own 
free  will.  We  will  not  fight  you  on  the  day  of  the  feast 
of  the  Holy  Redeemer.  But  to-morrow  every  Spaniard  and 
every  Walloon  in  our  armies  will  go  unarmed  and  present 
himself  at  your  church  doors.  I — even  I — with  my  captains 
and  the  members  of  the  King's  Council  will  attend  Mass 
at  the  church  of  St.  Baafs  and  we  will  be  unarmed,  for 
we  shall  have  placed  ourselves  under  the  care  of  the  Holy 
Redeemer  Himself.  And  now  tell  thy  soldiers,  rebel,  tell 
them  that  Spaniards  and  Walloons  will  be  in  the  churches 
of  Ghent  in  their  thousands  and  that  they  will  be  defenceless 
save  for  the  armour  of  prayer  which  will  encompass  them 
as  they  kneel  before  the  altar  of  God !" 

"And  in  the  meanwhile,"  retorted  van  Rycke,  "ye  will 
be  sending  to  Dendermonde  and  Alost  and  Antwerpen :  and 
when  after  the  evening  Angelus  we  take  up  arms  once 
more  against  your  tyranny,  there  will  be  five  thousand  more 
Spaniards  at  our  gates." 

"By  the  Holy  Redeemer  whom  I  herewith  invoke,"  said 
Alva  solemnly  and  raised  his  hand  above  his  head  with  a 
gesture  of  invocation,  "I  swear  that  no  messenger  of  mine 
shall  leave  the  city  before  ye  once  more  take  up  arms  against 
your  King.  I  swear  that  no  messenger  of  mine  hath  left  this 
city  for  the  purpose  of  getting  help  from  any  garrison  town, 
and  may  my  soul  be  eternally  damned  if  I  do  not  speak 
the  truth." 

Those  who  were  present  at  this  memorable  interview 
declare  that  when  Alva  registered  this  false  and  blas- 
phemous oath  a  curious  crimson  light  suddenly  appeared 
in  the  East — so  strong  and  lurid  was  it  that  the  perjurer 
himself  put  up  his  hand  for  a  second  or  two  as  if  blinded 
by  the  light.  Philip  de  Lannoy,  seigneur  de  Beauvoir, 


326  LEATHERFACB 

assures  us  that  the  light  was  absolutely  dazzling  and  of 
the  colour  of  blood,  but  that  he  took  it  as  a  warning  from 
God  against  the  sacrilege  of  fighting  on  this  holy  day, 
and  that  it  caused  him  to  add  the  weight  of  his  influence 
with  Mark  van  Rycke  to  grant  the  truce  which  the 
Spaniards  desired. 

Undoubtedly,  the  solemn  oath  spoken  by  the  tyrant  who 
was  such  a  devout  and  bigoted  Catholic  greatly  worked 
upon  the  feelings  of  the  Orangists:  never  for  a  moment 
did  the  suspicion  of  the  oath  being  a  false  one  enter  their 
loyal  heads :  nor  must  they  be  blamed  for  their  childish 
confidence  in  a  man  who  had  lied  to  them  and  deceived 
them  so  continuously  for  the  past  five  years.  They  were  so 
loyal  themselves,  such  a  trap  as  Alva  was  setting  for  them 
now  was  so  far  from  their  ken,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
them  to  imagine  such  appalling  treachery :  as  for  the  sanc- 
tity of  an  oath,  they  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  doubt- 
ing the  evidence  of  their  own  eyes. 

Mark  van  Rycke,  it  is  true,  held  out  to  the  last.  He 
knew  these  Spaniards  better  than  those  simple  burghers 
did :  not  in  vain  had  he  spent  his  best  years  in  the  uncon- 
genial task  of  worming  out  their  secret  plans — their  treach- 
erous devices — over  tankards  of  ale  and  games  of  hazard 
in  Flemish  taverns.  He  mistrusted  them  all,  he  mistrusted 
Alva  above  all !  he  had  no  belief  in  that  execrable  monster's 
oath. 

"God  is  on  our  side!"  he  said  quietly,  "we'll  bury  our 
dead  when  we  can,  and  pray  when  God  wills.  He'll  forgive 
the  breaking  of  His  Sabbath  for  the  justice  of  our  cause. 

"They  are  weary  of  the  fight,"  he  added  obstinately,  "we 
are  not." 

But  already  every  one  of  his  friends  was  urging  him  to 
grant  the  truce : 


.THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE  327 

"For  the  sake  of  our  women  and  children,"  said  van 
Deynse  who  voiced  the  majority,  "let  there  be  no  fighting 
to-morrow.  The  tyrant  has  pledged  his  immortal  soul  that 
he  will  not  play  us  false.  No  man  would  dare  to  do  that 
unless  he  meant  to  be  true." 

"Rebel!"  now  shouted  Alva  impatiently,  "I  await  thine 
answer." 

"Accept,  van  Rycke,  accept,"  cried  the  Orangists  unani- 
mously now,  "it  is  God's  will  that  we  accept." 

"I  await  thine  answer,  rebel,"  reiterated  Alva. 

"What  answer  can  I  give?"  retorted  van  Rycke.  "You 
say  your  men  will  go  to  our  churches  unarmed.  We  are 
not  butchers  as  ye  would  have  been." 

"You  will  let  them  pray  in  peace?" 

"As  thou  desirest.  You  who  were  prepared  to  destroy 
our  city  and  to  murder  our  women  and  our  children  will 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  us  while  ye  are  unarmed  and 
at  prayer." 

"Until  the  evening  Angelus  ceases  to  ring?" 

"Until  then." 

"And  until  that  hour  we  remain  as  we  are.  Our  guard 
at  the  gates.  .  .  ." 

"Our  prisoners  in  our  hands." 

"And  may  God  guard  thee,"  concluded  Alva  unctuously. 

"May  God  have  mercy  on  thy  soul  if  thou  hast  lied  to 
us,"  said  Mark  van  Rycke  quietly. 

To  this  Alva  made  no  reply,  but  his  grim  face  looked 
in  no  way  troubled.  Special  absolution  even  for  speaking 
a  false  oath  could  easily  be  obtained,  alas !  these  days  by  any 
Duke  of  Alva  or  other  tyrant  powerful  enough  to  demand 
it;  and  no  doubt  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  sent  to  subdue 
the  rebellious  Low  Countries,  was  well  provided  with  every 


328  LEATHERFACE 

kind  of  dispensation  which  embodied  the  principle  that  "the 
end  justifies  the  means !" 

He  wheeled  his  horse  round  and,  wholly  callous  and  un- 
concerned, he  rode  back  slowly  over  the  bridge. 

As  soon  as  the  last  of  the  Spaniards  had  filed  under  the 
gate-house  of  the  Kasteel  and  the  drawbridge  was  once 
more  raised,  Mark  van  Rycke  turned  with  unwonted  per- 
emptoriness  to  his  friends  who  were  crowding  round  him, 
eagerly  approving  of  what  he  had  done. 

"Van  Deynse,"  he  said  curtly,  "to-morrow  at  dawn,  see 
that  your  musketeers  are  massed  inside  the  ruins  of  the 
Tanners'  Guild  House,  and  you,  Laurence,  place  three  hun- 
dred of  your  picked  archers  under  the  cover  of  the  Vish 
Mart.  Lannoy,  your  pikemen  beneath  the  arcades  of  the 
Abbey  opposite  St.  Baafs,  and  you,  Groobendock,  yours  in 
the  doorways  of  the  houses  opposite  St.  Phara'ilde,  and 
every  one  of  you  under  arms.  Let  the  Spaniards  pray  in 
peace  if  they  have  not  lied.  But  at  the  first  sign  of  treach- 
ery, remember  your  wives  and  your  daughters  and  do  not 
spare  the  murderers  of  your  children  or  the  desecrators  of 
your  homes." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

TRUTH   AND   PERFIDY 


THE  cathedral  bells  of  St.  Baafs  were  the  first  to  ring  on 
that  unforgettable  23rd  day  of  October  which  was  the  feast 
of  the  Holy  Redeemer:  the  appealing,  sweet,  melancholy 
sound  came  clearly  through  the  humid  air.  Lenora,  who 
was  in  her  room  with  Crete,  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment 
and  listened.  The  bells  of  St.  Phara'ilde  took  up  the  call, 
then  those  of  St.  Jakab  and  St.  Agneten  until  the  clang  of 
bells  echoed  from  end  to  end  of  the  city  and  drowned  every 
other  sound — of  strife  or  of  misery.  The  roar  of  the  artil- 
lery now  was  mute,  the  clash  of  pikes  and  lances  was  no 
longer  heard — only  that  curious  medley  of  weird  and  terrible 
sounds  still  lingered  in  the  air — a  medley  made  up  of  sighs 
and  groans,  of  men  falling  down  exhausted  with  pain,  of 
masonry  still  crumbling  and  woodwork  still  sizzling — a  med- 
ley to  which  now  was  added  the  roll  of  drums  which  on 
either  side  called  to  the  men  to  lay  aside  their  strife  and  to 
go  and  pray  in  peace. 

On  the  walls  of  the  castle-yard  the  Duke's  proclamation 
of  the  Lord's  Day  truce  was  posted  up  and  he  himself  was 
giving  a  few  brief  orders  to  his  captains : 

"Let  the  men  understand,"  he  said,  "that  they  are  free 
to  go  to  Mass  in  the  various  churches  of  the  city,  and  that 
they  can  do  so  without  the  slightest  fear.  But  they  must  all 
be  back  inside  the  Kasteel  precincts  by  two  hours  after  noon. 

329 


330  LEATHERFACE 

Let  the  couriers  go  to  the  gate-houses  at  the  six  Poorts  and 
issue  the  same  orders  there,  and  have  the  proclamation 
posted  up.  Make  it  known  here  as  well  as  at  the  Poorts 
that  if  any  man  fails  to  respect  the  truce,  if  there  is  any 
brawling  in  the  streets  or  in  the  taverns,  I  shall  proceed  with 
merciless  severity  against  the  culprits." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  captain  of  the  castle-guard,  don 
Sancho  de  Avila:  "Yours  will  be  the  duty  to  see  that 
runners  are  sent  out  in  secret  on  the  Dendermonde  road 
with  orders  that  any  troops  which  may  be  on  the  way,  make 
all  possible  speed.  You  had  best  remain  in  command  here 
while  I  go  to  Mass:  keep  your  picked  guard  and  the  mus- 
keteers under  arms,  for,  the  moment  that  the  Dendermonde 
banderas  are  in  sight,  we  must  be  ready  to  co-operate  with 
them  by  a  sortie  en  masse." 

"I  quite  understand,  Magnificence,"  replied  the  captain. 

A  few  moments  later  the  bridge  was  lowered  and  some 
three  thousand  men  filed  out  across  it  in  orderly  lines  as 
for  parade — but  unarmed.  The  Spanish  halberdiers  formed 
the  van  and  the  rear-guard,  the  Walloon  pikemen  and  arch- 
ers were  massed  in  the  centre,  and  in  the  midst  of  them 
walked  the  Duke  of  Alva  with  his  immediate  cortege:  de 
Vargas  who  had  his  daughter  on  his  arm  and  Crete  close 
beside  her,  don  Alberic  del  Rio,  Councillor  Hessels  and 
two  or  three  other  members  of  the  Council.  Behind  them 
came  the  standard-bearers  with  standards  unfurled  and  the 
drummers. 

In  silence  they  reached  the  lines  of  the  Orangists,  which 
they  had  to  cross  in  a  double  file,  each  man  holding  up  his 
hands  to  show  that  he  was  unarmed.  The  Orangist  leaders 
stood  by  in  a  group,  and  when  the  Duke  and  the  members 
of  the  Council  had  to  file  through  the  lines  in  their  turn, 
they  stepped  forward  in  order  to  greet  them  in  amity. 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  331 

"God  guard  ye!"  they  said  as  the  Duke  walked  by. 

"We'll  aid  Him  in  that,"  retorted  the  Spaniards  cynically. 

Mark  van  Rycke  was  in  the  forefront  of  the  group  at  the 
moment  that  Lenora  went  by  leaning  on  her  father's  arm. 
She  looked  up  just  then  and  saw  him.  He  held  his  head 
erect  as  he  always  did,  but  she  could  not  fail  to  see  how 
completely  he  had  changed  in  those  few  hours  since  last 
she  saw  him  at  Dendermonde.  The  hours  seemed  to  have 
gone  over  him  like  years :  gone  was  that  quaint,  gentle,  ap- 
pealing way  to  which  she  had  so  nearly  yielded.  His  atti- 
tude now  was  one  of  lofty  defiance,  sublime  in  its  unshakable 
determination  and  in  its  pride.  Well !  perhaps  it  was  better 
so!  Was  he  not  the  embodiment  of  everything  that  Lenora 
had  been  taught  to  hate  and  despise  since  her  tenderest 
childhood — the  despised  race  that  dared  to  assert  itself,  the 
beneficiary  who  turned  on  the  hand  that  loaded  him  with 
gifts  and,  above  all,  the  assassin  who  cowered  in  the  dark, 
the  slave  who  struck  his  master  whom  he  dared  not  defy? 
Yes!  Mark  van  Rycke,  her  husband,  the  murderer  of  Ra- 
mon, stood  for  all  that,  and  Lenora  despised  herself  for 
every  tender  feeling  which  had  gripped  her  soul  in  the  past 
two  days  whenever  she  thought  of  him  as  wounded,  helpless, 
or  mayhap  dead. 

And  yet  now  when  his  eyes  met  hers,  they  suddenly  took 
on  a  wonderful  softness,  that  quaint  look — half-whimsical, 
half  appealing — came  back  to  them  and  with  it  too  a  look 
of  infinite  pity  and  of  unswerving  love;  and  as  she  caught 
the  glance — she  who  felt  so  lonely  and  so  desolate — there 
came  to  her  mind  the  remembrance  of  the  sweet  and  pathetic 
story  of  the  primeval  woman  who  was  driven  forth  by  God's 
angel  from  the  gates  of  Paradise.  Somehow  she  felt  that 
once — not  so  very  long  ago — she  too  had  wandered  for 
a  brief  while  within  the  peaceful  glades  of  a  Paradise  of 


332  LEATHERFACE 

her  own,  and  that  now  an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  stood 
at  its  gates  and  would  not  allow  her  to  return,  but  forced 
her  to  wander  out  through  life  in  utter  loneliness  and  with 
the  unbearable  load  of  agonising  remorse. 


ii 


Of  all  the  episodes  which  the  historical  records  of  the 
time  present  to  the  imagination,  not  one  perhaps  is  quite 
so  moving  and  so  inspiring  as  that  of  the  solemn  Mass 
which  was  offered  up  in  every  church  of  the  stricken  city 
on  this  Sunday  morning — the  feast  of  the  Holy  Redeemer 
— when  the  Duke  of  Alva  and  the  members  of  his  odious 
Blood  Council  knelt  side  by  side  with  the  heroic  men  who 
were  making  their  last  desperate  stand  for  justice,  for  lib- 
erty and  the  sanctity  of  their  homes. 

The  Lieutenant-Governor  and  the  Spanish  high  digni- 
taries, both  civil  and  military,  are  present  in  the  Cathedral 
of  St.  Baaf's,  as  are  also  the  Orangist  leaders.  The  Span- 
iards occupy  one  side  of  the  aisle,  the  Flemings,  with  the 
women  and  children,  are  on  the  other,  and  crowd  every 
corner  of  the  stately  edifice.  Up  at  the  high  altar,  Father 
van  der  Schlicht  is  officiating  with  others  of  the  cathedral 
clergy,  and  the  pure  voices  of  the  choir  boys  resound 
through  the  building  like  the  call  of  the  angels  of  peace. 

The  fabric^of  the  exquisite  building  bears  traces  of  that 
awful  fate  which  an  abominable  tyranny  was  reserving  for 
the  entire  city.  The  walls  themselves  stand,  but  in  places 
they  are  torn  by  large  fissures,  which  look  like  gaping 
wounds  in  the  flesh  of  a  giant.  Reverend  hands  have  hastily 
swept  aside  the  debris  of  glass  and  masonry,  the  fragments 
of  stone  statues  and  scraps  of  iron  and  wood;  but  here  and 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  333 

there  the  head  of  an  angel,  the  clasped  hands  of  a  saint  or 
palm  of  a  martyr,  still  litter  the  floor;  the  slender  columns 
of  the  aisle  have  taken  on  a  curious  rusty  tint,  and  over  the 
screen  the  apostles  of  carved  wood  are  black  with  smoke. 

There  are  two  large  holes  in  the  roof,  through  which  the 
bleak  October  breeze  comes  sighing  in,  and  the  sweet  smell 
of  stale  incense  which  usually  hangs  about  the  place  of 
worship  has  yielded  to  the  pungent  odour  of  charred  wood 
and  of  singed  draperies. 

On  the  Flemish  side  a  dull  tone  of  colour  prevails,  browns 
and  russets  and  dull  reds — many  women  have  wrapped 
black  hoods  over  their  heads,  and  long,  black  mantles  hang 
from  their  shoulders;  but  on  the  other  side  the  fantastic 
garb  of  the  Spanish  halberdiers  throws  a  note  of  trenchant 
yellow  right  through  the  sombre  tint  of  the  picture:  and 
the  white  ruffs  round  the  men's  necks  gleam  like  pale  stars 
upon  the  canvas.  And  over  it  all  the  light  through  the 
broken  window  falls  crude  and  grey.  Only  the  chancel 
glows  with  a  warm  light,  and  Father  van  der  Schlicht's  vest- 
ments of  crimson  silk,  the  gilt  candlesticks  upon  the  high 
altar,  the  flickering  yellow  flames  of  the  candles,  the  red 
cassocks  of  the  young  servers,  all  form  a  kaleidoscope  of 
brilliant  colours  which  is  almost  dazzling,  whilst  up  above, 
the  banners  and  coats-of-arms  of  the  Knights  of  the  Golden 
Fleece  still  flaunt  their  rich  heraldic  tints  against  the  dark 
vaulting  of  the  roof,  and  above  the  high  altar  the  figure  of 
the  Redeemer  with  arms  stretched  out  to  bless,  seems  to 
mock  by  its  exquisite  pathos  and  peace  the  hideous  strifes 
of  men. 

The  church  is  crowded  from  end  to  end:  Flemings  and 
Walloons  and  Spaniards,  the  tyrants  and  the  oppressed,  all 
kneel  together,  while  Father  van  der  Schlicht  up  at  the 
altar  softly  murmurs  the  Confiteor :  some  have  rough  linen 


334  LEATHERFACE 

bandages  round  their  head  or  arm;  some  have  ugly  stains 
upon  their  doublet  or  hose;  others — unable  to  stand  or 
lean — lie  half  prone  upon  the  ground,  supported  by  their 
comrades.  The  Duke  of  Alva  holds  his  head  erect,  and 
senor  de  Vargas  bows  his  down  until  it  well-nigh  touches 
the  ground :  most  of  the  women  are  crying,  some  of  them 
faint  and  have  to  be  carried  away.  The  Spaniards  are  more 
demonstrative  in  their  devotions  than  are  the  Netherlanders, 
they  strike  their  breasts  at  the  Confiteor,  with  wide,  osten- 
tatious gestures,  and  need  much  elbow  room  when  they 
make  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

At  the  reading  of  the  Gospel  every  one  stands,  and  men, 
women  and  children  solemnly  make  profession  of  that  Faith 
of  Love  and  Goodwill  which  the  events  of  the  past  two 
days  have  so  wantonly  outraged. 

Lenora  from  where  she  stands  can  see  her  husband's  head 
— with  its  closely-cropped  brown  hair — towering  above  the 
rest  of  the  crowd.  He  does  not  look  to  right  or  left  of  him, 
but  gazes  fixedly  upon  the  altar;  Lenora  can  see  his  lips 
moving  as  he  recites  the  Creed,  and  to  her  straining  senses 
it  seems  as  if  right  through  the  murmur  ings  of  all  these 
people  she  can  distinguish  his  voice  amongst  all  the  others, 
and  that  it  strikes  against  her  heart  with  sweet  persistence 
of  unforgettable  memories. 

And  suddenly  the  high  altar  with  the  figure  of  the  Re- 
deemer fades  from  her  sight ;  the  crowds  vanish,  the  priest 
disappears,  the  voices  of  the  choir  boys  are  stilled.  She  is 
back  once  more  in  the  small  tapperij  of  the  inn  at  Dender- 
monde,  sitting  beside  the  hearth  with  Mark — her  husband 
— half  kneeling,  half  sitting  close  to  her — she  lives  again 
those  few  moments  of  dreamlike  peace  and  joy  when  he 
lulled  her  with  gentle  words  and  tender  glances  which  had 
shown  her  the  first  glimpse  of  what  human  happiness  might 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  335 

be — and  she  lives  again  the  mcment  when  she  stood  in  that 
same  room  with  his  wounded  arm  in  her  hand,  and  realised 
that  he  was  the  cowardly  assassin  who  had  struck  Ramon 
down  in  the  dark. 

God  in  Heaven!  was  not  her  hatred  of  him  justified? 
Even  at  the  foot  of  this  altar,  where  all  should  be  peace 
and  goodwill,  had  she  not  the  right  to  hate  this  one  man 
who  had  murdered  Ramon,  who  had  fooled  and  cajoled  her, 
and  used  her  as  an  insentient  tool  for  his  own  ends,  his  own 
amusement?  Her  father  had  told  her  that  she  would  see 
him  hanged,  and  that  his  death  would  be  her  work  under 
the  guidance  of  God.  Not  one  moment  of  the  past  would 
she  undo,  and  she  regretted  nothing  save  the  moments  of 
weakness  which  came  over  her  whenever  she  met  his  glance. 
He  was  the  leader  of  these  abominable  rebels — a  leader 
every  inch  of  him,  that  she  could  see — but  yet  a  murderer 
for  all  that,  and  the  deadly  enemy  of  her  country  and  her 
King. 

God  had  had  His  will  with  her,  and  now  He  was  dealing 
punishment  with  equal  justice  to  all;  and  Lenora  standing 
there,  shivering  under  the  cold  draught  which  came  on  her 
from  the  shattered  roof,  yet  inwardly  burning  with  a  fever 
of  regret  and  of  longing,  marvelled,  if  among  the  thousands 
that  would  suffer  through  God's  retributive  justice,  any  one 
would  endure  the  martyrdom  which  she  was  suffering  now. 


in 


Later  on,  during  the  noonday  rest,  Lenora  sat  in  her 
room  in  the  Meeste-Toren  and  tried  to  visualise  once  more 
all  that  she  had  lived  through  in  the  past  hour — her  meeting 
with  Mark  when  she  went  through  the  Orangist  lines  with 


336  LEATHERFACE 

her  father — the  crowded  church,  the  sombre  colours,  the 
pathetic  aspect  of  broken  statuary  and  holy  images  charred 
and  shattered — the  return  to  the  Kasteel  in  silence — the  out- 
line of  Mark's  profile  above  the  crowd — Mark!  always 
Mark !  If  only  she  could  forget ! 

The  air  in  the  narrow  room  felt  stuffy  and  oppressive: 
she  ordered  Crete  to  open  the  window.  It  gave  on  the 
same  iron  balcony  to  which  the  council  chamber  and  the 
apartments  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  had  access;  but  as  it  was 
high  up  in  the  wall  and  very  small,  she  could  sit  quite  close 
beside  it  and  yet  not  be  seen  by  any  one  who  might  be 
walking  on  the  balcony.  Lenora's  head  ached  intolerably, 
and  Crete,  always  kind  and  anxious,  took  down  the  wavy 
masses  of  fair  hair  and  brushed  them  gently,  so  as  to  soothe 
the  quivering  nerves. 

A  strange  hush  hung  in  the  air — the  hush  of  a  Sunday 
afternoon  when  a  big  and  peaceful  city  is  at  rest — a  hush 
in  strange  and  almost  weird  contrast  to  the  din  which  had 
shaken  up  the  very  atmosphere  during  the  past  two  days.' 
Only  from  the  castle-yard  down  below  there  comes  the  sad 
sound  of  groans  and  sighs  of  pain,  and  an  occasional  call  for 
"donna  Lenora!"  with  the  cool,  soft  hands  and  the  gentle 
voice,  the  ministering  angel  of  goodness  and  consolation. 

"Crete,"  queried  Lenora  abruptly,  "dost  love  me  truly?" 

"With  my  whole  heart,  noble  lady,"  replied  the  child 
simply. 

"Then,  if  thou  lovest  me,  didst  pray  at  Mass  this  morn- 
ing for  the  success  of  our  cause  and  the  confusion  of  those 
abominable  rebels?" 

Crete  made  no  reply,  and  anon  a  low,  suppressed  sob 
caused  Lenora  to  say,  not  unkindly : 

"Thy  heart  is  with  the  rebels,  Crete." 

"I  know  most  of  their  leaders,  noble  lady,"  murmured 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  337 

the  girl,  through  her  tears.  "They  are  brave,  fine  men. 
When  I  think  of  those  who  surely  must  die  after  this,  I  feel 
as  if  my  heart  must  break  with  sorrow  and  with  pity." 

"Didst  know  them  well?" 

"Aye,  noble  lady.  They  used  to  come  to  the  Three 
Weavers.' ' 

"The  Three  Weavers/  Crete?" 

"Aye !  my  father  kept  "the  tavern,  here  in  Ghent.  .  .  . 
The  noble  seigniors  of  the  city  and  the  Spanish  officers  of 
the  garrison  all  used  to  come  to  us  in  the  afternoons.  .  .  . 
Messire  Jan  van  Migrode,  the  Chief  Sheriff,  Messire  Lievin 
van  Deynse  and  the  seigneur  de  Beauvoir,  they  all  came 
regularly.  And  .  .  .  and  Messire  Mark  van  Rycke,"  she 
added  under  her  breath,  "him  they  call  Leatherface." 

"My  husband,  Crete,"  murmured  Lenora. 

"I  know  it,  noble  lady." 

"Didst  know  then  that  Messire  Mark  van  Rycke  was 
Leatherface  ?" 

"Not  till  yesterday,  noble  lady  .  .  .  not  till  the  men  spoke 
of  it  and  said  that  the  mysterious  Leatherface  was  the  leader 
of  the  rebels  .  .  .  and  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  High- 
Bailiff  of  Ghent,  Messire  Mark  van  Rycke.  .  .  ." 

"Thou  didst  know  him,  too,  then  as  Leatherface  ?" 

"Aye,  noble  lady,"  said  Crete  quietly,  "he  saved  my  life 
and  my  sister's.  I  would  give  mine  to  save  him  now." 

"Saved  thy  life?    How?    When?" 

"Only  a  few  days  ago,  noble  lady,"  murmured  the  child, 
speaking  with  a  great  effort  at  self-control.  The  recollec- 
tion of  that  awful  night  brought  fresh  terror  to  her  heart. 

But  Lenora's  brows  contracted  now  in  puzzlement.  A 
few  days  ago  ?  Mark  was  courting  her  then.  .  .  . 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said  impatiently,  "a  few  days 
ago  Leatherface  .  .  .  Messire  Mark  van  Rycke  .  .  .  was 


338  LEATHERFACE 

in  Ghent  ...  I  was  betrothed  to  him  on  the  seventh  day  of 
this  month.  .  .  ." 

"And  'tis  on  that  night  he  saved  my  life  ...  and  Ka- 
trine's .  .  .  aye !  and  saved  us  from  worse  than  death.  .  .  ." 

She  paused  abruptly ;  her  round,  young  cheeks  lost  their 
last  vestige  of  colour,  her  eyes  their  clear,  childlike  look. 
She  cast  a  quick,  furtive  glance  on  Lenora  as  if  she  were, 
afraid.  But  Lenora  was  unconscious  of  this  change  in  the 
girl's  manner,  her  very  senses  seemed  to  be  on  the  alert, 
hanging  upon  the  peasant  girl's  lips.  .  .  .  The  night  of  her 
betrothal  was  the  night  on  which  Ramon  was  murdered 
.  .  .  the  tavern  of  the  "Three  Weavers"  was  the  place 
where  he  was  found.  This  girl  then  knew  something  of 
that  awesome  occurrence,  which,  despite  outside  assurances, 
had  remained  vaguely  puzzling  to  Lenora's  mind.  Now  she 
would  hear  and  know,  and  her  very  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still  as  her  mind  appeared  to  be  waiting  upon  the  threshold 
of  a  mystery  which  was  interwoven  with  her  whole  life,  and 
with  her  every  hope  of  peace. 

"But  what?"  she  queried  with  agonised  impatience. 
"Speak,  girl !  Canst  not  see  that  I  only  live  to  hear?" 

"Our  father  was  taken,"  said  Crete  quietly,  "he  was 
hanged  eight  days  ago." 

"Hanged?"  exclaimed  Lenora,  horror-struck.  "Why? 
What  had  he  done?" 

"He  was  of  the  Protestant  faith  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 

Lenora  made  no  comment,  and  the  girl  wiped  her  eyes, 
which  had  filled  with  tears. 

"Thou  and  Katrine  were  spared?"  asked  Lenora,  after 
awhile. 

"We  were  spared  at  the  time,"  said  Crete,  "but  I  sup- 
pose," she  added  with  quaint  philosophy,  "we  remained 
objects  of  suspicion.  The  soldiers  would  often  be  very 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  339 

rough  with  us,  and  upon  the  seventh  day  of  October  the 
commanding  Spanish  officer  in  Ghent  .  .  ." 

Once  more  she  paused  timidly,  fear  of  having  said  too 
much,  fighting  with  the  childish  love  to  retail  her  woes,  and 
pour  her  interesting  story  into  sympathetic  ears. 

"Well?"  queried  Lenora,  more  impatiently,  "go  on, 
child.  What  did  the  commanding  Spanish  officer  in  Ghent 
do  to  thee  on  the  seventh  day  of  October?" 

But  at  this  Crete  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  The  events 
were  so  recent,  and  the  shock  of  horror  and  of  fear  had 
been  so  terrible  at  the  time,  that  the  recollection  of  it  all 
still  had  the  power  to  unnerve  her.  Lenora,  whose  own 
nerves  were  cruelly  on  the  rack  at  this  moment,  had  much 
ado  to  keep  her  impatience  in  check.  After  a  few  moments 
Crete  became  more  calm,  and  dried  her  eyes. 

"There  was  a  big  to-do  at  the  Town  House,"  she  said 
more  quietly,  "and  the  whole  city  was  gaily  decorated. 
The  apprentices  had  a  holiday  in  the  evening.  They  were 
very  hilarious,  and  so  were  the  soldiers." 

"Well?    And—" 

"The  soldiers  came  to  the  'Three  Weavers.'  They  had 
been  drinking  heavily,  and  were  very  rough.  The  com- 
manding Spanish  officer  came  in  late  in  the  evening.  .  .  . 
He  encouraged  the  soldiers  to  drink,  and  to  ...  to  make 
fun  of  us  ...  of  Katrine  and  of  me.  .  .  .  We  were  all 
alone  in  the  house,  and  we  were  very  frightened.  The 
Spanish  officer  ordered  Katrine  to  wait  on  the  soldiers, 
then  he  made  me  go  with  him  to  a  private  room.  .  .  ." 

The  tears  were  once  more  very  near  the  surface,  and 
a  hot  blush  of  shame  for  all  that  she  had  had  to  endure 
overspread  Crete's  face  and  neck. 

"Go  on,  child,"  queried  Lenora.  "What  happened  after 
that?" 


340  LEATHERFACE 

"The  Spanish  officer  was  very  cruel  to  me,  noble  lady. 
I  think  he  would  have  killed  me,  and  I  am  sure  the  soldiers 
were  very  cruel  to  Katrine.  .  .  .  Oh !  it  was  horrible !  hor- 
rible!" she  cried,  "and  we  were  quite  alone  and  help- 
less. .  .  ." 

"Yes.  I  know  that,"  said  Lenora,  and  even  to  herself  her 
own  voice  sounded  curiously  dull  and  toneless;  "but  tell 
me  what  happened." 

"I  was  crouching  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  noble  lady. 
My  back  ached  terribly,  for  I  had  been  thrown  across  the 
table,  and  I  thought  my  spine  must  be  broken — my  wrists, 
too,  were  very  painful  where  the  noble  officer  had  held 
them  so  tightly.  I  was  half  wild  with  terror,  for  I  did  not 
know  what  would  become  of  me.  Then  the  door  opened, 
and  a  man  came  in.  Oh !  I  was  dreadfully  frightened.  He 
was  very  tall  and  very  thin,  like  a  dark  wraith,  and  over 
his  face  he  had  a  mask.  And  he  spoke  kindly  to  me — and 
after  awhile  I  was  less  frightened — and  then  he  told  me 
just  what  to  do,  how  to  find  Katrine,  to  take  some  money 
and  run  away  to  our  kinswoman  who  lives  in  Dendermonde. 
I  thought  then  that  he  was  no  wrai'th  ..."  continued  Crete 
in  an  awestruck  whisper,  "but  just  one  of  the  archangels. 
For  they  do  appear  in  curious  disguises  sometimes  ...  he 
saved  my  life  and  Katrine's,  and  more  than  life,  noble  lady," 
added  the  girl  with  a  note  of  dignity  in  her  tone,  which  sat 
quaintly  upon  her  timid  little  person,  "do  you  not  think 
that  it  was  God  who  sent  him  to  protect  two  innocent  girls 
from  the  cruelty  of  those  wicked  men?" 

"Yes;  I  think  so,  child,"  said  Lenora  quietly.  "But,  tell 
me,  dost  know  what  happened  after  that?" 

"No,  lady,  I  do  not.  I  went  to  look  for  Katrine,  just  as 
the  stranger  ordered  me  to  do.  But,"  she  added  under  her 
breath,  and  still  under  the  spell  of  past  terrors,  "we  heard 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  341 

afterwards  through  Pierre  Beauters,  the  butcher,  that  the 
noble  seignior  commandant  was  found  killed  that  same 
night  in  the  tavern  of  the  'Three  Weavers.'  The  provost 
found  him  lying  dead  in  the  same  room  where  the  archangel 
had  appeared." 

"Stabbed,  child,  didst  thou  say?" 

"No,  noble  lady.  The  provost  told  Pierre  Beauters  that 
the  noble  Spanish  commandant  had  been  felled  by  mighty 
hands  in  a  hand-to-hand  fight;  he  had  no  wound  on  him, 
only  the  marks  of  powerful  fingers  round  his  throat.  But 
his  own  dagger,  they  say,  was  covered  in  blood.  Pierre 
Beauters  helped  to  place  the  body  in  the  coffin,  and  he  said 
that  the  noble  Spanish  commandant  had  been  killed  in  fair 
fight — a  fight  with  fists,  and  not  with  swords.  He  also  said 
that  the  stranger  who  killed  him  was  the  mysterious  Leath- 
er face,  of  whom  we  hear  so  much,  and  that,  mayhap,  we 
should  never  hear  of  him  again,  for  the  Spanish  command- 
ant must  have  wounded  him  to  death  .  .  .  the  dagger  was 
covered  with  blood  almost  to  the  hilt.  But,"  concluded 
Crete,  with  a  knowing  little  nod  of  the  head,  "this  I  did  not 
believe  at  the  time,  and  now  I  know  that  it  was  not  so ;  the 
stranger  may  not  have  been  one  of  the  archangels,  but  truly 
he  was  a  messenger  of  God.  When  the  noble  lady  brought 
me  back  with  her  to  Ghent  I  heard  the  men  talking  about 
the  mysterious  Leatherface.  Then  the  day  before  yesterday 
when  the  cavalrymen  flew  helter-skelter  into  the  castle-yard, 
they  still  talked  loudly  of  Leatherface;  but  I  guessed  then 
that  he  was  not  a  real  archangel,  but  just  a  brave  man  who 
protects  the  weak,  and  fights  for  justice,  and  .  .  ." 

She  paused,  terrified  at  what  she  had  said.  Ignorant  as 
she  was,  she  knew  well  enough  that  the  few  last  words 
which  she  had  uttered  had  caused  men  and  women  to  be 
burned  at  the  stake  before  now.  Wide-eyed  and  full  of  fear 


342  LEATHERFACE 

she  looked  on  the  noble  Spanish  lady,  expecting  every  mo- 
ment to  see  a  commanding  finger  pointed  on  her,  and 
orders  given  for  her  immediate  arrest. 

Instead  of  which  she  saw  before  her  a  pale,  slim  girl 
scarce  older  than  herself,  and  infinitely  more  pathetic,  just 
a  young  and  beautiful  woman  with  pale  face  and  eyes  swim- 
ming in  tears,  whose  whole  attitude  just  expressed  an  im- 
mense and  overwhelming  grief. 

The  veil  of  mystery  which  had  hung  over  Ramon's  death 
had  indeed  been  lifted  at  last  by  the  rough,  uncouth  hands 
of  the  innkeeper's  daughter.  Lenora  as  yet  hardly  dared 
to  look  into  the  vista  which  it  opened  up  before  her :  bound- 
less remorse,  utter  hopelessness,  the  dreary  sense  of  the 
irreparable — all  that  lay  beyond  the  present  stunning  blow 
of  this  terrible  revelation. 

God  in  Heaven !  she  cried  out  mutely  in  her  misery,  how 
could  she  ever  have  thought — even  for  a  moment — that 
those  grey  eyes,  so  merry  and  yet  so  tender — could  mask 
a  treacherous  and  cowardly  soul?  How  could  she  think 
that  those  lips  which  so  earnestly  pleaded  for  a  kiss  could 
ever  have  been  framed  to  hide  a  lying  tongue?  Would  to 
God  that  she  could  still  persuade  herself  that  all  this  new 
revelation  was  a  dream;  that  Grete — the  unsophisticated 
child — had  lied  and  concocted  the  whole  story  to  further 
some  hidden  schemes  of  her  own !  Would  to  God  she  could 
still  believe  that  Mark  was  vile  and  false — an  assassin  and 
a  perjurer — and  that  she  could  hate  him  stillf 

She  met  Crete's  eyes  fixed  so  fearfully  upon  hers — she 
met  them  at  the  moment  when  she  was  about  to  give  her- 
self over  to  the  transient  happiness  of  a  brief  day-dream 
.  .  .  dreams  of  two  unforgettable  hours  when  he  sat  be- 
side her  with  his  hand  shading  his  face  .  .  .  his  eyes  rest- 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  343 

ing  upon  her  .  .  .  dreams  of  his  voice  when  he  said : 
"When  I  look  at  you,  Madonna,  I  invariably  think  of  hap- 
piness." 


rv 


But  Crete  recalled  her  to  herself,  and  to  the  awful  pres- 
ent. Despite  her  great  respect  for  the  noble  Spanish  lady, 
she  suddenly  put  her  arms  round  her  shoulders,  and  tried 
to  draw  her  away  from  the  open  window. 

"His  Highness!"  she  whispered  hurriedly,  "he  will  see 
us." 

"What  matters,  child,"  murmured  Lenora,  "he  will  not 
harm  us." 

Instinctively,  however,  she  did  yield  to  Crete's  insistence 
and  drew  back  slightly  from  the  window.  From  the  bal- 
cony down  below  there  came  the  sound  of  measured  tramp- 
ing. Two  or  three  men  were  walking  there  slowly  up  and 
down  and  talking  confidentially  together  while  they  walked. 
Whenever  they  were  close  to  the  window  their  voices  came 
up  quite  distinctly,  but  it  was  impossible  to  hear  all  that 
they  said,  but  one  or  two  disjointed  sentences  gave  a  faint 
clue  to  the  subject  of  their  conversation.  Lenora  now 
leaned  closer  to  the  window-frame  trying  to  hear,  for  she 
had  recognised  her  father's  voice  as  well  as  that  of  the 
Duke  of  Alva,  and  they  were  speaking  of  their  future  plans 
against  the  rebels  and  against  the  city,  and  Lenora  felt  that 
she  would  give  her  life  to  know  what  those  plans  were. 

After  a  moment  or  two  she  heard  the  voice  of  Captain 
de  Avila ;  he  was  apparently  coming  up  the  iron  stairs  from 
the  yard  and  was  speaking  hurriedly : 

"A  runner,  your  Highness,"  he  said,  "straight  from  Den- 
dermonde." 


344  LEATHERFACE 

"What  news?"  queried  the  Duke,  and  his  voice  sounded 
almost  choked  as  if  with  fierce  impatience. 

"One  of  Captain  Lodrono's  messengers  reached  Dender- 
monde  last  night,"  replied  de  Avila,  "he  was  lucky  enough 
to  get  a  horse  almost  at  once." 

"Well  .  .  .   ?  and  .  .  .   ?" 

"This  man  came  running  straight  back  to  bring  us  the 
news!  Captain  Bracamonte  started  at  break  of  day:  he 
should  be  well  on  his  way  with  the  reinforcements  by 
now." 

There  was  a  hoarse  exclamation  of  satisfaction  and  a 
confused  murmur  of  voices  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then 
de  Vargas  spoke: 

"It  was  a  bold  venture,  Monseigneur,"  he  said. 

"This  truce,  you  mean?"  retorted  Alva.  "Well !  not  quite 
so  bold  as  it  appeared.  Those  Netherlanders  are  such 
mighty  fools  that  it  is  always  easy  to  make  them  believe 
anything  that  we  choose  to  tell  them:  do  they  not  always 
fall  into  our  traps?  I  had  only  to  swear  by  my  immortal 
soul  that  we  had  not  sent  for  reinforcements  and  the  last 
of  their  resistance  was  overcome." 

Lenora  could  hear  her  father's  harsh  laugh  after  this  and 
then  del  Rio  said  blandly: 

"Van  Rycke  did  not  believe  in  that  oath." 

"Perhaps  not  at  first,"  Alva  said,  "but  it  was  so  finely 
worded  and  spoken  with  such  solemnity,  it  was  bound  to 
carry  conviction  in  the  end." 

"You  were  not  afraid,  Monseigneur,"  queried  de  Vargas, 
"this  morning  ...  in  the  crowd  .  .  .  after  Mass  .  .  . 
that  the  rebels  would  break  the  truce  and  fall  upon  our 
men?" 

"No,"  replied  the  Duke  curtly,  "were  you?" 

There  came  no  answer  from  de  Vargas,  and  to  the  lis- 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  345 

teners  it  seemed  as  if  by  his  silence  he  was  admitting  that 
he  did  not  believe  the  Orangists  capable  of  such  abominable 
treachery  A  fine  tribute  that — Lenora  thought — from  her 
father  who  hated  and  despised  the  Netherlanders !  But  he 
and  Alva  would  even  now  call  such  loyalty  and  truth  the 
mere  stupidity  of  uncultured  clowns. 

"Anyhow  it  was  worth  the  risk,"  de  Vargas  resumed 
after  awhile,  with  that  cold  cynicism  which  will  sacrifice 
friends,  adherents,  kindred  for  the  furtherance  of  political 
aims. 

"Well  worth  the  risk,"  asserted  Alva,  "we  have  gained 
the  whole  of  to-day.  If  these  rebels  had  rushed  the  Kasteel 
this  morning,  I  verily  believe  that  we  could  not  have  held  it : 
I  might  have  fallen  into  their  hands  and — with  me  as  their 
hostage — they  would  by  now  have  been  in  a  position  to  dic- 
tate their  own  terms  before  reinforcements  reached  us — 
always  supposing  that  they  did  not  murder  us  all.  Yes," 
he  reiterated  with  obvious  satisfaction,  "even  if  treachery 
had  been  in  the  air  it  was  still  well  worth  the  risk." 

"And  in  the  meanwhile  .  .  ."  suggested  del  Rio. 

"In  the  meanwhile  Bracamonte  is  on  his  way  here.  .  .  . 
He  must  have  started  well  before  noon  ...  he  might  be 
here  before  nightfall.  .  .  ." 

"With  at  least  five  thousand  men,  I  hope,"  added  de 
Vargas. 

"Night  may  see  us  masters  of  this  city  once  more,  seign- 
iors," rejoined  Alva,  "and  by  God  we'll  punish  those  rebels 
for  the  fright  they  have  given  us.  Ghent  will  be  envying 
Mons  and  Mechlin.  .  .  ." 

The  three  men  walked  slowly  away  after  that,  and  their 
voices  were  lost  in  the  distance.  The  listeners  could  no 
longer  distinguish  what  was  said,  but  anon  a  harsh  laugh 
struck  their  ear,  and  leaning  out  of  the  window  Lenora 


346  LEATHERFACE 

could  see  the  Duke  and  her  father  standing  just  outside 
the  council-chamber.  The  Duke  had  thrown  back  his  head 
and  was  laughing  heartily,  de  Vargas  too  looked  highly 
amused.  Not  one  single  word  of  remorse  or  regret  had 
been  spoken  by  either  of  them  for  the  blasphemous  oath 
which  had  finally  overcome  the  resistance  of  the  Orangists : 
of  a  truth  it  did  not  weigh  on  the  conscience  of  the  man 
who  had  so  wantonly  outraged  his  Maker  less  than  an 
hour  before  he  knelt  at  the  foot  of  His  Altar,  and  de  Vargas 
and  his  kind  were  only  too  ready  to  benefit  by  the  perjury. 
The  sack  of  Ghent — jeopardised  for  a  few  hours — was 
once  more  looming  ahead  as  a  coveted  prize.  What  was 
a  false  oath  or  so — one  crime  the  more — when  weighed  in 
the  balance  with  all  the  money  and  treasure  which  the  un- 
expected resistance  of  a  few  Flemish  clowns  had  so  nearly 
wrenched  from  these  noble  Spaniards'  grasp? 


"Didst  hear?"  came  in  a  smothered  whisper  from  Lenora. 
She  had  turned  suddenly  and  now  faced  Crete,  who  stood 
wide-eyed  and  terrified  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Her 
arms  were  behind  her,  and  she  clung  to  the  window-ledge : 
her  fair  hair — all  loose — streamed  round  her  shoulders; 
pale,  with  glowing  eyes  and  quivering  lips,  she  looked  like 
some  beautiful  feline  creature  at  bay. 

"Didst  hear?"  she  reiterated  hoarsely. 

"Every  word,  most  noble  lady,"  came  the  whispered  re- 
sponse. 

"What  didst  make  of  it?" 

"That  His  Highness  sent  to  Dendermonde  for  help,  and 
that  troops  are  on  their  way." 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  347 

"But  His  Highness  swore  most  solemnly  that  he  would 
respect  the  truce  which  he  himself  asked  for,  and  that  both 
sides  would  resume  the  fight  .  .  .  this  evening  .  .  .  just  as 
they  were  before  ,  .  ,  without  fresh  help  or  reinforce- 
ments." 

"I  heard  the  men  say  last  night,  noble  lady,  that  rein- 
forcements had  already  been  sent  for  from  Dendermonde 
.  .  .  the  Duke  feared  that  the  Netherlanders  were  getting 
the  upper  hand  ...  he  asked  for  the  truce  only  to  gain 
time.  .  .  ." 

"Then  ...  if  Captain  Bracamonte  arrives  from  Den- 
dermonde with  fresh  troops  the  Netherlanders  are  lost !" 

"God  guard  them,"  said  Crete  fervently.  "He  alone  can 
save  them  now." 

"Oh!"  cried  Lenora  with  sudden  passionate  bitterness, 
"how  can  men  conceive  such  abominable  treachery?  How 
can  God  allow  them  to  triumph?" 

Crete  said  nothing.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Lenora 
stared  straight  out  before  her  into  the  dark  corner  of  the 
room:  there  was  a  frown  of  deep  thought  between  her 
brows,  and  her  fresh  young  mouth  became  hard  and  set. 

"Crete,"  she  said  abruptly,  "is  it  not  horrible  to  think 
that  those  we  care  for  are  liars  and  traitors  ?" 

Then,  as  Crete  made  no  reply,  she  continued  with  the 
same  passionate  vehemence:  "Is  it  not  horrible  to  think 
that  brave  men  must  be  butchered  like  cattle,  because  they 
trusted  in  the  oath  of  a  perjurer?  .  .  .  Oh!  that  all  the 
baseness,  all  the  lying  should  be  on  one  side  and  all  the 
heroism  on  the  other!  and  that  God  should  allow  those 
monsters  to  triumph !  .  .  .'' 

She  paused  and  suddenly  her  whole  expression  changed 
— the  vehemence,  the  passion  went  out  of  it  .  .  .  her  lips 


348  LEATHERFACE 

ceased  to  quiver,  a  curious  pallor  overspread  her  cheeks  and 
the  lines  of  her  mouth  became  hard  and  set. 

"Crete,"  she  said  abruptly,  "art  afraid?" 

"Of  what,  noble  lady?"  asked  the  child. 

"Oh!  of  everything  ...  of  insults  and  violence  and 
death?" 

"No,  noble  lady,"  said  Crete  simply.  "I  trust  to  God  to 
protect  me." 

"Then  wilt  come  with  me?" 

"Whither,  noble  lady?" 

"Into  the  city  .  .  .  alone  with  me  .  .  .  we'll  pretend 
that  we  go  to  Benediction.  .  .  ." 

"Into  the  city  .  .  .   ?"  exclaimed  the  girl.     "Alone?" 

"Art  afraid?" 

"No." 

"Then  put  up  my  hair  and  get  hood  and  cloak  and  give 
me  mine.  .  .  ." 

Crete  did  as  she  was  ordered.  She  pinned  up  Lenora's 
fair  hair  and  brought  her  a  mantle  and  hood  and  wrapped 
them  round  her :  then  she  fastened  on  her  own. 

"Come!"  said  Lenora  curtly. 

She  took  the  girl  by  the  hand  and  together  the  two 
women  went  out  of  the  room.  Their  way  led  them  through 
endless  corridors  and  down  a  long,  winding  staircase ;  hand 
in  hand  they  ran  like  furtive  little  animals  on  the  watch 
for  the  human  enemy.  Down  below  the  big  flagged  hall  was 
full  of  soldiers:  the  two  women  only  realised  this  when 
they  reached  the  last  landing. 

"Will  they  let  us  pass?"  murmured  Crete. 

"Walk  beside  me  and  hold  thy  head  boldly,"  said  Lenora, 
"they  must  not  think  that  we  are  afraid  of  being  chal- 
lenged." 

She  walked  down  the  last  flight  of  the  stairs  with  slow 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  349 

majestic  steps:  her  arms  folded  beneath  her  cloak,  looking 
straight  ahead  of  her  with  that  air  of  calm  detachment 
and  contempt  of  others  which  the  Spanish  noblesse  knew  so 
well  how  to  assume. 

Captain  de  Avila  was  below :  at  sight  of  donna  Lenora 
he  came  forward  and  said  with  absolute  respect : 

"La  sefiora  desires  to  go  out?" 

"As  you  see,"  she  replied  haughtily. 

"Not  further  than  the  precincts  of  the  Kasteel,  I  hope." 

"What  is  that  to  you,  whither  I  go?"  she  queried. 

"My  orders  .  .  ."  he  stammered,  somewhat  taken  aback 
by  this  grand  manner  on  the  part  of  the  sefiora  who  had 
always  been  so  meek  and  silent  hitherto. 

"What  orders  have  you  had,  seigneur  capitaine?"  she 
queried,  "which  warrant  your  interference  with  my  move- 
ments ?" 

"I  ...  truly  .  .  ."   he   murmured,    "senor   de   Vargas 

» 

"My  father,  I  presume,  has  not  given  you  the  right  to 
question  my  freedom  to  go  and  come  as  I  please,"  she  re- 
torted, still  with  the  same  uncompromising  hauteur. 

"No  ...  but  ..  ." 

"Then  I  pray  you  let  me  pass.  ...  I  hear  the  bells  of 
St.  Phara'ilde  ...  I  shall  be  late  for  Benediction.  .  .  ." 

She  swept  past  him,  leaving  him  not  a  little  bewildered 
and  completely  abashed.  He  watched  her  tall,  graceful 
figure  as  she  sailed  through  the  portico  and  thence  across 
the  castle-yard,  then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  to  cast 
aside  any  feeling  of  responsibility  which  threatened  to 
worry  him,  and  returned  to  the  guard-room  and  to  his 
game  of  hazard.  It  was  only  then  that  he  recollected  that 
it  lacked  another  two  hours  to  Benediction  yet. 

In  the  yard  Lenora  had  more  serious  misgivings. 


650  LEATHERFACE 

"There's  the  guard  at  the  gate-house,"  she  murmured. 
"Keep  up  thy  look  of  unconcern,  Crete.  We  can  only  win 
if  we  are  bold." 

As  she  anticipated  the  provost  at  the  gate-house  chal- 
lenged her. 

"I  go  to  St.  Phara'ilde,"  she  said  calmly,  "my  father  is 
with  me.  He  hath  stopped  to  speak  with  Captain  de  Avila. 
Lower  the  bridge,  provost,  and  let  us  pass.  We  are  late 
enough  for  Benediction  as  it  is." 

The  provost  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"The  seigneur  capitaine  sent  me  orders  just  now  that  no 
one  was  to  leave  the  Kasteel,"  he  said 

"Am  I  under  the  seigneur  capitaine's  orders,"  she  re- 
torted, "or  the  daughter  of  sefior  de  Vargas,  who  will 
punish  thee,  sirrah,  for  thine  insolence?" 

The  provost,  much  disturbed  in  his  mind,  had  not  the 
courage  to  run  counter  to  the  noble  lady's  wish.  He  had 
had  no  orders  with  regard  to  her,  and  as  she  very  rightly 
said,  she  was  not  under  the  orders  of  the  seigneur  capitaine. 

He  ordered  the  bridge  to  be  lowered  for  her,  vaguely 
intending  not  to  let  her  pass  until  he  assured  himself  that 
sefior  de  Vargas  was  nigh  :  but  Lenora  gave  him  no  time  for 
reflection:  she  waited  until  the  bridge  was  down,  then 
suddenly  she  seized  Crete's  hand  and  quick  as  a  young  hare 
she  darted  past  the  provost  and  the  guard  before  they 
thought  of  laying  hands  on  her,  and  she  was  across  the 
bridge  before  they  had  recovered  from  their  surprise. 

Once  on  the  open  ground  Lenora  drew  breath.  The 
provost  and  the  guard  could  not  very  well  run  after  her,  and 
for  the  moment  she  was  safe  from  pursuit.  On  ahead  lay 
the  sharp  bend  of  the  Lower  Schelde,  beyond  .it  the  ruined 
mass  of  the  Vleeshhuis,  and  the  row  of  houses,  now  all 
shattered  to  pieces,  where  the  Orangists  held  their  watch. 


TRUTH  AND  PERFIDY  351 

Her  heart  was  beating  furiously,  and  she  felt  Crete's  rough 
little  hand  quivering  in  hers.  She  felt  such  a  tiny  atom, 
a  mere  speck  in  this  wide  open  space.  In  front  of  her  was 
the  city,  which  seemed  even  in  the  silence  of  this  Sunday 
afternoon  to  be  quivering  in  the  throes  of  oncoming  death : 
to  right  and  left  of  her  the  great  tract  of  flat  country,  this 
land  of  Belgium  which  she  had  not  yet  learned  to  love  but 
for  which  she  now  felt  a  wonderful  pity. 

It  was  a  rude  lesson  which  she  had  been  made  to  learn 
within  the  last  hour :  the  lesson  that  the  idols  of  her  child- 
hood and  girlhood  had  not  only  feet  of  clay  but  that  they 
were  steeped  to  the  neck  in  the  mire  of  falsehoods  and 
treachery:  she  had  also  learned  that  the  man  whom  she 
had  once  hated  with  such  passionate  bitterness  was  worthy 
of  a  pure  woman's  love:  that  happiness  had  knocked  at  the 
gateway  of  her  own  heart  and  been  refused  admittance :  and 
that  God  was  not  wont  to  give  very  obvious  guidance  in 
the  terrible  perplexities  which  at  times  beset  His  creatures. 

Therefore  now  she  no  longer  lured  herself  with  the  belief 
that  she  was  acting  at  this  moment  under  the  direct  will  of 
God,  she  knew  that  she  was  guided  by  an  overmastering  and 
blind  instinct  which  told  her  that  she  must  see  Mark — at 
once — and  warn  him  that  the  perfidy  of  the  Duke  of  Alva 
had  set  a  deathly  trap  for  him  and  for  his  friends. 

A  few  more  minutes  and  she  and  Crete  were  over  the 
Ketel  Brughe  and  under  the  shadow  of  the  tall  houses  on 
the  river  embankment  beyond. 

"Take  me !"  she  said  to  Crete  peremptorily,  "to  the  house 
of  the  High-Bailiff  of  Ghent." 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THE  LAST  STAND 


THE  word  has  gone  round,  we  must  all  assemble  in  the 
cathedral  church — every  burgher,  every  artisan,  every  ap- 
prentice who  belongs  by  blood  to  Ghent  must  for  the  nonce 
cast  aside  pick  and  shovel:  the  dead  can  wait!  the  living 
claim  attention. 

Quite  a  different  crowd  from  that  which  knelt  at  prayer 
this  morning!  It  is  just  two  o'clock  and  the  sacred  edifice 
is  thronged :  up  in  the  galleries,  the  aisles,  the  chancel,  the 
organ  loft,  the  pulpit,  everywhere  there  are  men — young 
and  old — men  who  for  two  days  now  have  been  face  to 
face  with  death  and  who  wear  on  their  grim  faces  the  traces 
of  the  past  fierce  struggle  and  of  the  coming  cataclysm. 
There  are  no  women  present.  They  have  nobly  taken  on 
the  task  of  the  men,  and  the  dainty  burghers'  wives  who 
used  to  spend  their  time  at  music  or  needlework,  wield  the 
spade  to-day  with  as  much  power  as  their  strength  allows. 

Perfect  order  reigns  despite  the  magnitude  of  the  crowd : 
those  who  found  no  place  inside  the  building,  throng  the 
cemetery  and  the  precincts.  Behind  the  high  altar  the  Or- 
angist  standard  is  unfurled,  and  in  front  of  the  altar  rails 
stand  the  men  who  have  fought  in  the  forefront  of  the  in- 
surgents' ranks,  who  have  led  every  assault,  affronted  every 
danger,  braved  musket  fire  and  arrow-shot  and  burning 
buildings  and  crumbling  ruins,  the  men  who  have  endured 

352 


THE   LAST   STAND  353 

and  encouraged  and  cheered :  Mark  van  Rycke  the  popular 
leader,  Laurence  his  brother,  Pierre  Deynoot,  Lievin  van 
Deynse,  Frederic  van  Beveren  and  Jan  van  Migrode,  who 
is  seriously  wounded  but  who  has  risen  from  his  sick  bed 
and  crawled  hither  in  order  to  add  the  weight  of  his  coun- 
sel and  of  his  enthusiasm  to  what  he  knows  van  Rycke  will 
propose. 

Yes !  they  are  there,  all  those  that  are  left !  and  with  them 
are  the  older  burghers,  the  civic  dignitaries  of  their  city,  the 
Sheriffs  of  the  Keure,  the  aldermen,  the  vroedschappen,  the 
magistrates,  and  the  High-Bailiff  himself — he  who  is  known 
to  be  such  a  hot  adherent  of  Alva. 

It  is  he  who  has  convened  this  meeting — a  general  rally 
of  the  citizens  of  Ghent.  He  called  them  together  by  roll 
of  drums  and  by  word  of  mouth  transmitted  by  volunteer 
messengers  who  have  flown  all  over  the  town.  This  morn- 
ing we  spent  in  prayer — to-day  is  a  day  of  peace — let  us 
meet  and  talk  things  over,  for  if  wisdom  waits  upon  en- 
thusiasm, all  is  not  lost  yet.  The  proposal  has  come  from 
the  High-Bailiff,  at  the  hour  of  noon  when  men  only 
thought  of  the  grim  work  of  burying  the  dead,  and  women 
wandered  through  the  streets  to  search  for  the  loved  one 
who  has  been  missing  since  yesterday. 

But  at  the  word  of  the  High-Bailiff  the  men  laid  aside 
their  picks  and  spades.  If  all  is  not  lost,  why  then  there's 
something  still  to  do  and — the  dead  must  wait. 

And  every  man  goes  to  the  cathedral  church  to  hear  what 
the  High-Bailiff  has  to  say:  the  church  and  precincts  are 
crowded.  In  silence  every  one  listens  whilst  he  speaks.  He 
has  always  been  a  faithful  subject  of  King  Philip,  an  obedi- 
ent servant  of  the  Regent  and  the  Lieutenant-Governor : 
his  influence  and  well-known  adherence  to  the  King  has 
saved  the  city  many  a  time  from  serious  reprisals  against 


354  LEATHERFACE 

incipient  revolt  and  from  many  of  the  horrors  of  the  Inqui- 
sition. Now,  while  up  there  in  the  Kasteel  Alva  impatiently 
awaits  the  arrival  of  fresh  troops  which  will  help  to  crush 
the  rebellious  city,  the  High-Bailiff  pleads  for  submission. 

He  has  faith  in  the  human  tiger. 

"Let  us  throw  ourselves  at  his  feet,"  he  urges,  "he  is  a 
brave  soldier,  a  great  warrior.  He  will  respect  your  valor- 
ous resistance  if  he  sees  that  in  the  hour  when  you  have 
the  advantage  over  him  you  are  prepared  to  give  in,  and 
to  throw  yourselves  upon  his  mercy.  Let  us  go — we  who 
are  older  and  wiser — let  those  who  have  led  this  unfortunate 
revolt  keep  out  of  the  way — I  will  find  the  right  words  I 
know  to  melt  the  heart  of  our  Lieutenant-Governor  now 
turned  in  wrath  against  us — let  us  go  and  cry  for  mercy 
and,  by  God,  I  believe  that  we  shall  get  it." 

Like  the  waves  upon  the  sea,  the  crowd  in  the  church 
moves  and  oscillates :  murmurs  of  assent  and  dissent  mingle 
from  end  to  end,  from  side  to  side :  "No ! — Yes ! — 'Twere 
shameful! — 'Twere  wise! — There  are  the  women  to  think 
of! — And  the  children! — He  will  not  listen! — Why  this 
purposeless  abasement  ?" 

Van  Rycke  and  the  other  leaders  make  no  comment  upon 
the  High-Bailiff's  appeal — even  though  their  whole  soul 
revolts  at  the  thought  of  this  fresh  humiliation  to  be  en- 
dured by  the  burghers  of  Ghent,  once  so  proud  and  so  inde- 
pendent! But  they  won't  speak!  Mark  knows  that  with 
one  word  he  can  sway  the  whole  of  this  crowd.  They  are 
heroes  all — every  one  of  these  men.  At  one  word  from 
him  they  will  cast  aside  every  thought  save  that  of  the 
renewed  fight — the  final  fight  to  the  death — they  are  seeth- 
ing with  enthusiasm,  their  blood  is  up  and  prudence  and 
wisdom  have  to  be  drilled  into  them  now  that  they  have 
tasted  of  the  martyr's  cup. 


THE   LAST   STAND  355 

You  can  hear  Father  van  der  Schlicht's  voice  now.  He 
too  is  for  humility  and  an  appeal  for  mercy  on  this  the 
festival  day  of  the  Holy  Redeemer.  The  Lieutenant-Gover- 
nor is  a  pious  man  and  a  good  Catholic.  The  appeal  is  sure 
to  please  his  ears.  Oh !  the  virtues  that  adorn  the  Duke  of 
Alva  in  the  estimation  of  his  adherents!  He  is  pious  and 
he  is  brave!  a  good  Catholic  and  a  fine  soldier!  mercy  in 
him  is  allied  to  wisdom !  he  will  easily  perceive  that  to  gain 
the  gratitude  of  the  citizens  of  Ghent  would  be  more  prof- 
itable to  him  than  the  destruction  of  a  prosperous  city.  See 
this  truce  which  he  himself  suggested :  was  it  not  the  product 
of  a  merciful  and  a  religious  mind?  To  pray  in  peace,  to 
obey  the  dictates  of  the  Church,  to  give  the  enemy  the  chance 
of  burying  the  dead! — were  these  not  the  sentiments  of  a 
good  and  pious  man  ? 

Messire  Henri  de  Buck,  senior  Schepen  and  Judge  of 
the  High  Court,  has  many  tales  to  tell  of  the  kindness 
and  generosity  of  the  Duke.  Oh!  they  are  very  eloquent, 
these  wealthy  burghers  who  have  so  much  more  to  lose  by 
this  revolt  than  mere  honour  and  mere  life! 

And  the  others  listen !  Oh  yes !  they  listen !  need  a  stone 
be  left  unturned?  and  since  Messire  the  High-Bailiff  hath 
belief  in  his  own  eloquence,  why!  let  him  exercise  it  of 
course.  Not  that  there  is  one  whit  less  determination  in 
any  single  man  in  the  crowd!  If  the  High-Bailiff  fails  in 
his  mission,  they  will  fight  to  the  last  man  still,  but  .  .  . 
oh!  who  can  shut  his  heart  altogether  against  hope?  And 
there  are  the  women  and  the  children  .  .  .  and  all  those 
who  are  old  and  feeble. 

God  speed  to  you  then,  my  Lord  High-Bailiff — Charles 
van  Rycke,  the  pusillanimous  father  of  a  gallant  son !  God 
speed  to  all  of  you  who  go  to  plead  with  a  tiger  to  spare 
the  prey  which  he  already  holds  between  his  claws!  The 


356  LEATHERFACE 

High-Bailiff  will  go  and  with  him  Father  van  der  Schlicht 
and  Father  Laurent  Toch  from  St.  Agneten,  and  Messire  de 
Buck  and  Francois  de  Wetteren :  all  the  men  who  two  days 
ago  were  kneeling  in  the  mud  at  the  tyrant's  feet,  and  pre- 
sented him  so  humbly  with  the  gates  of  the  city  which  he 
had  sworn  to  destroy.  There  is  no  cheering  as  they  detach 
themselves  from  the  group  of  the  rebel  leaders  who  still 
stand  somewhat  apart,  leaving  the  crowd  to  have  its  will. 

No  cheering,  it  is  all  done  in  silence !  Men  do  not  cheer 
on  the  eve  of  being  butchered ;  they  only  look  on  their  stand- 
ard up  above  the  high  altar  behind  the  carved  figure  of  the 
Redeemer,  and  though  they  have  given  silent  consent  for 
this  deputation  to  the  tyrant  they  still  murmur  in  their 
hearts :  "For  Orange  and  Liberty !" 

Jan  van  Migrode,  weak  and  ill  from  his  wound,  has 
had  the  last  word.  He  begs  that  every  one  should  wait — 
here — just  as  they  are  ...  in  silence  and  patience  .  .  . 
until  the  High-Bailiff  and  his  friends  come  back  with  the 
news  .  .  .  good  or  bad !  peace  or  renewed  fighting — life  or 
death ! — whichever  it  is  they  must  all  be  together  in  order 
to  decide. 

Just  at  the  last  the  High-Bailiff  turns  to  his  son. 

"You  do  not  approve  of  our  going,  Mark?"  he  asks  with 
some  diffidence. 

"I  think  that  it  is  purposeless,"  replies  Mark;  "you 
cannot  extract  blood  out  of  a  stone,  or  mercy  out  of  the 
heart  of  a  brute!" 

II 

They  go,  the  once  proud  burghers  of  the  city  of  Ghent, 
they  go  to  throw  themselves  for  the  last  time  at  the  feet  of 
that  monster  of  tyranny  and  cruelty  who  even  at  this  hour 


THE  LAST   STAND  357 

is  gloating  over  the  thought  of  the  most  deadly  reprisals 
he  hath  ever  dealt  to  these  down-trodden  people. 

They  go  with  grave  yet  hopeful  faces,  in  their  dark  robes 
which  are  the  outward  sign  of  the  humility,  the  loyalty 
which  dwell  in  their  hearts.  The  crowd  have  wished  them 
God  speed !  and  as  they  file  out  of  the  stately  cathedral  and 
through  the  close,  the  men  stand  respectfully  aside  and  eye 
them  with  a  trustful  regard  which  is  infinitely  pathetic. 
Their  leaders  have  remained  beside  the  altar  rails,  grouped 
together,  talking  quietly  among  themselves:  Mark  van 
Rycke,  however,  goes  to  mingle  with  the  crowd,  to  speak 
with  all  those  who  desire  a  word  with  him,  with  the  men 
whose  heart  is  sore  at  the  humiliation  which  they  are  forced 
to  swallow,  who  would  sooner  have  died  than  see  the  dig- 
nitaries of  their  city  go  once  again  as  suppliants  before 
that  execrable  tyrant  whom  they  loathe. 

"What  is  thine  idea,  van  Rycke?"  most  of  the  men  ask 
him  as  they  crowd  around  him,  anxious  to  hear  one  word  of 
encouragement  or  of  hope.  "Dost  think  the  tyrant  will 
relent?" 

"Not  unless  we  hold  him  as  he  holds  us — not  unless  we 
have  him  at  our  mercy." 

"Then  what  can  we  do?  what  can  we  do?" 

"Do?"  he  reiterates  for  the  hundredth  time  to-day,  "do? 
Fight  to  the  last  man,  die  to  the  last  man,  until  God,  wearied 
of  the  tyrant's  obstinacy,  will  crush  him  and  give  us  grace." 

"But  we  cannot  win  in  the  end." 

"No !  but  we  can  die  as  we  have  lived,  clean,  undaunted, 
unconquered." 

"But  our  wives,  our  daughters  ?" 

"Ask  them,"  he  retorts  boldly.  "It  is  not  the  women 
who  would  lick  the  tyrant's  shoes." 

The  hour  drags  wearily  on.     In  imagination  every  one 


858  LEATHERFACE 

inside  and  around  the  cathedral  follows  the  burghers  on 
their  weary  pilgrimage.  Half  an  hour  to  walk  to  the  Kas- 
teel,  half  an  hour  for  the  audience  with  the  Duke,  half  an 
hour  to  return  .  .  .  unforeseen  delay  in  obtaining  admit- 
tance ...  it  may  be  two  hours  before  they  return.  Great 
many  of  the  men  have  returned  to  the  gloomy  task  of  bury- 
ing the  dead,  others  to  that  of  clearing  the  streets  from  the 
litter  which  encumbers  them:  but  even  those  who  work 
the  hardest  keep  their  attention  fixed  upon  the  cathedral 
and  its  approach. 

Van  Rycke  had  suggested  that  the  great  bell  be  rung  when 
the  burghers  came  back  with  the  Duke's  answer,  so  that  all 
who  wished  could  come  and  hear. 


in 


And  now  the  answer  has  come. 

The  High-Bailiff  has  returned  with  Fathers  van  der 
Schlicht  and  Laurent  Toch,  with  Aldermen  de  Buck  and 
de  Wetteren  and  with  the  others.  They  have  walked  back 
from  the  Kasteel  bareheaded  and  shoeless  with  their  hands 
tied  behind  their  back,  and  a  rope  around  their  neck. 

That  was  the  Duke  of  Alva's  answer  to  the  deputation 
of  Flemish  patricians  and  burghers  who  had  presented  them- 
selves before  him  in  order  to  sue  for  his  mercy.  They  had 
not  even  been  admitted  into  his  presence.  The  provost  at 
the  gate-house  had  curtly  demanded  their  business,  had 
then  taken  their  message  to  the  Duke,  and  returned  five 
minutes  later  with  orders  to  "send  back  the  beggars  whence 
they  came,  bareheaded  and  shoeless  and  with  a  rope  around 
their  necks  in  token  of  the  only  mercy  which  they  might 
expect  from  him!" 


THE   LAST   STAND  359 

The  bridge  had  been  lowered  for  them  when  they  arrived, 
but  they  were  kept  parleying  with  a  provost  at  the  gate- 
house :  not  a  single  officer — even  of  lower  rank — deigned 
to  come  out  to  speak  with  them;  the  yard  was  filled  with 
soldiers  who  insulted  and  jeered  at  them :  the  High-Bailiff 
was  hit  on  the  cheek  by  a  stone  which  had  been  aimed  at 
him,  and  Father  Laurent  Toch's  soutane  was  almost  torn  off 
his  back.  Every  one  of  them  had  suffered  violence  at  the 
hands  of  the  soldiery  whilst  the  Duke's  abominable  orders 
were  being  carried  out  with  appalling  brutality:  every  one 
of  them  was  bleeding  from  a  cut  or  a  blow  dealt  by  that  in- 
famous crowd  who  were  not  ashamed  thus  to  maltreat  de- 
fenceless and  elderly  men. 

When  they  crossed  the  open  tract  of  country  between 
the  castle  moat  and  the  Schelde  a  shower  of  caked  mud  was 
hurled  after  them  from  the  ramparts;  not  a  single  insult 
was  spared  them,  not  a  sting  to  their  pride,  not  a  crown  to 
their  humiliation.  It  was  only  when  they  reached  the  shelter 
of  the  streets  that  they  found  some  peace.  In  silence  they 
made  their  way  toward  the  cathedral.  The  crowds  of  men 
and  women  at  work  amongst  the  dead  and  the  wounded 
made  way  for  them  to  allow  them  to  pass,  but  no  one  ques- 
tioned them:  the  abject  condition  in  which  they  returned 
told  its  own  pitiable  tale. 

The  cathedral  bell  had  tolled,  and  from  everywhere  the 
men  came  back  to  hear  the  full  account  of  the  miserable 
mission.  The  crowd  was  dense  and  not  every  one  had  a 
view  of  the  burghers  as  they  stood  beside  the  altar  rail  in  all 
their  humiliation,  but  those  who  were  nearest  told  their 
neighbours  and  soon  every  one  knew  what  had  happened. 

The  younger  leaders  ground  their  heels  into  the  floor, 
and  Jan  van  Migrode,  sick  and  weak  as  he  was,  was  the 


860  LEATHERFACE 

first  to  stand  up  and  to  ask  the  citizens  of  Ghent  if  the 
events  of  to-day  had  shaken  them  in  their  resolve. 

"You  know  now  what  to  expect  from  that  fiend.  Will 
you  still  die  like  heroes,  or  be  slaughtered  like  cattle?"  he 
called  out  loudly  ere  he  fell  back  exhausted  and  faint. 

Horror  had  kept  every  one  dumb  until  then,  and  grim 
resolve  did  not  break  into  loud  enthusiasm  now,  but  on  the 
fringe  of  the  crowd  there  were  a  number  of  young  men — 
artisans  and  apprentices — who  at  first  sight  of  the  returned 
messengers  had  loudly  murmured  and  cursed.  Now  one  of 
them  lifted  up  his  voice.  It  raised  strange  echoes  in  the 
mutilated  church. 

"We  are  ready  enough  to  die,"  he  said,  "and  we'll  fight 
to  the  end,  never  fear.  But  before  the  last  of  us  is  killed, 
before  that  execrable  tyrant  has  his  triumph  over  us,  lads  of 
Ghent,  I  ask  you  are  we  not  to  have  our  revenge?" 

"Yes!  yes!"  came  from  a  number  of  voices,  still  from 
the  fringe  of  the  crowd  where  the  young  artisans  were 
massed  together,  "well  spoken,  Peter  Balde !  let  us  have  re- 
venge first!" 

"Revenge !    Revenge !"  echoed  from  those  same  ranks. 

Every  word  echoed  from  pillar  to  pillar  in  the  great, 
bare,  crowded  church ;  and  now  it  was  from  the  altar  rails 
that  Mark  van  Rycke's  voice  rang  out  clear  and  firm : 

"What  revenge  dost  propose  to  take,  Peter  Balde?"  he 
asked. 

The  other,  thus  directly  challenged  by  the  man  whose 
influence  was  paramount  in  Ghent  just  now,  looked  round 
at  his  friends  for  approval.  Seeing  nothing  but  eager, 
flushed  faces  and  eyes  that  glowed  in  response  to  his  sug- 
gestion, the  pride  of  leadership  entered  his  soul.  He  was  a 
fine,  tall  lad  who  yesterday  had  done  prodigies  of  valour 
against  the  Spanish  cavalry.  Now  he  had  been  gesticulating 


THE  LAST   STAND  361 

with  both  arms  above  his  head  so  that  he  was  easily  distin- 
guishable in  the  crowd  by  those  who  had  a  clear  view,  and 
in  order  to  emphasize  his  spokesmanship  his  friends  hoisted 
him  upon  their  shoulders  and  bearing  him  aloft  they  forged 
their  way  through  the  throng  until  they  reached  the  centre 
of  the  main  aisle.  Here  they  paused,  and  Peter  Balde  could 
sweep  the  entire  crowd  with  his  enthusiastic  glance. 

"What  I  revenge  would  take?"  he  said  boldly.  "Nay! 
let  me  rather  ask:  what  revenge  must  we  take,  citizens 
of  Ghent?  The  tyrant  even  now  has  abused  the  most 
sacred  laws  of  humanity  which  bid  every  man  to 
respect  the  messengers  of  peace.  He  is  disloyal  and  ignoble 
and  false.  Why  should  we  be  honourable  and  just?  He 
neither  appreciates  our  loyalty  nor  respects  our  valour — let 
us  then  act  in  the  only  way  which  he  can  understand.  Citi- 
zens, we  have  two  thousand  prisoners  in  the  cellars  of  our 
guildhouses — two  thousand  Walloons  who  under  the  banner 
of  our  common  tyrant  have  fought  against  us  ...  their 
nearest  kindred.  I  propose  that  we  kill  those  two  thousand 
prisoners  and  send  their  heads  to  the  tyrant  as  a  direct  an- 
swer to  this  last  outrage." 

"Yes!  yes!  Well  said!"  came  from  every  side,  from 
the  younger  artisans  and  the  apprentices,  the  hot-headed 
faction  amongst  all  these  brave  men — brave  themselves  but 
writhing  under  the  terrible  humiliation  which  they  had  just 
endured  and  thirsting  for  anything  that  savoured  of  re- 
venge. 

"Yes!  yes!  the  axe  for  them!  send  their  heads  to  the 
tyrant !  Well  spoken,  Peter  Balde,"  they  cried. 

The  others  remained  silent.  Many  even  amongst  the 
older  men  perhaps  would  have  echoed  the  younger  ones' 
call:  cruelty  breeds  cruelty  and  oppression  breeds  callous 
thoughts  of  revenge.  Individually  there  was  hardly  a  man 


362  LEATHERFACE 

there  who  was  capable  of  such  an  act  of  atrocious  barbarism 
as  the  murder  of  a  defenceless  prisoner,  but  for  years  now 
these  people  had  groaned  under  such  abominable  tyranny, 
had  seen  such  acts  of  wanton  outrage  perpetrated  against 
them  and  all  those  they  held  dear,  that — collectively — their 
sense  of  rightful  retribution  had  been  warped  and  they  had 
imbibed  some  of  the  lessons  of  reprisals  from  their  ex- 
ecrable masters. 

At  the  foot  of  the  altar  rails  the  group  of  leaders  who 
stood  as  a  phalanx  around  Mark  van  Rycke  their  chief, 
waited  quietly  whilst  the  wave  of  enthusiasm  for  Balde's 
proposal  rose  and  swelled  and  mounted  higher  and  higher 
until  it  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  of  the  sacred  edifice, 
and  then  gradually  subsided  into  more  restrained  if  not  less 
enthusiastic  determination. 

"We  will  do  it,"  said  one  of  Balde's  most  fervent  adher- 
ents. "It  is  only  justice,  and  it  is  the  only  law  which  the 
tyrant  understands — the  law  of  might." 

"It  is  the  law  which  he  himself  has  taught  us,"  said 
another,  "the  law  of  retributive  justice." 

"The  law  of  treachery,  of  rapine,  and  of  outrage,"  now 
broke  in  Mark's  firm,  clear  voice  once  more;  it  rose  above 
the  tumult,  above  the  hubbub  which  centred  round  the  per- 
son of  Peter  Balde;  it  rang  against  the  pillars  and  echoed 
from  end  to  end  of  the  aisle.  "Are  we  miserable  rabble 
that  we  even  dream  of  murder?" 

"Not  of  murder,"  cried  Balde  in  challenge,  "only  of 
vengeance !" 

"Your  vengeance !"  thundered  Mark,  "do  you  dare  speak 
of  it  in  the  house  of  Him  who  says  *I  will  repay!' ' 

"God  is  on  our  side,  He  will  forgive  1"  cried  some  of 
them. 


THE  LAST   STAND  863 

"Everything1,  except  outrage!  ,  .  .  what  you  propose  is 
a  deed  worthy  only  of  hell !" 

"No !  no  t  Balde  is  right !  Magnanimity  has  had  its  day ! 
But  for  this  truce  to-day  who  knows  ?  we  might  have  been 
masters  of  the  Kasteel !" 

"Will  the  murdering  of  helpless  prisoners  aid  your  cause, 
then?" 

"It  will  at  least  satisfy  our  craving  for  revenge !" 

"Right,  right,  Balde!"  they  all  exclaimed,  "do  not  heed 
what  van  Rycke  says." 

"We  will  fight  to-morrow !" 

"Die  to-morrow !"  they  cried. 

"And  blacken  your  souls  to-day!"  retorted  Mark. 

The  tumult  grew  more  wild.  Dissension  had  begun  to 
sow  its  ugly  seed  among  these  men  whom  a  common  danger, 
united  heroism,  and  courage  had  knit  so  closely  together. 
The  grim,  silent,  majestic  determination  of  a  while  ago  was 
giving  place  slowly  to  rabid,  frenzied  calls  of  hatred,  to  ugly 
oaths,  glowing  eyes  and  faces  heated  with  passion.  The 
presence  of  the  dozen  elderly  patricians  and  burghers  still 
bare-headed  and  shoeless,  still  with  the  rope  around  their 
necks,  helped  to  fan  up  the  passions  which  their  misfortunes 
had  aroused.  For  the  moment,  however,  the  hot-headed 
malcontents  were  still  greatly  in  the  minority,  but  the  danger 
of  dissent,  of  mutiny  was  there,  and  the  set  expression  on 
the  faces  of  the  leaders,  the  stern  look  in  Mark  van  Rycke's 
eyes  testified  that  they  were  conscious  of  its  presence. 


IV 


Then  it  was  that  right  through  this  tumult  which  had 
spread  from  the  building  itself  to  the  precincts  and  even  be- 


864  LEATHERFACE 

yond,  a  woman's  cry  rang  out  with  appalling  clearness.  It 
was  not  a  cry  of  terror,  rather  one  of  command,  but  so 
piercing  was  it  that  for  the  moment  every  other  cry  was 
stilled :  Peter  Balde's  adherents  were  silenced,  and  suddenly 
over  this  vast  assembly,  wherein  but  a  few  seconds  ago  pas- 
sions ran  riot,  there  fell  a  hush — a  tension  of  every  nerve, 
a  momentary  lull  of  every  heart-beat  as  with  the  prescience 
of  something  momentous  to  which  that  woman's  cry  was 
only  the  presage. 

And  in  the  midst  of  that  sudden  hush  the  cry  was  heard 
again — more  clearly  this  time  and  closer  to  the  cathedral 
porch,  so  that  the  words  came  quite  distinctly : 

"Let  me  get  to  him  .  .  .  take  me  to  your  leader  ...  I 
must  speak  with  him  at  once !" 

And  like  distant  thunder,  the  clamour  rose  again:  men 
and  women  shouted  and  called;  the  words :  "Spaniard !"  and 
"Spy!"  were  easily  distinguishable:  the  crowd  could  be 
seen  to  sway,  to  be  moving  like  a  huge  wave,  all  in  one  direc- 
tion toward  the  porch:  hundreds  of  faces  showed  plainly 
in  the  dull  grey  light  as  necks  were  craned  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  woman  who  had  screamed. 

But  evidently  with  but  rare  exceptions  the  crowd  was 
not  hostile:  those  who  had  cried  out  the  word  "Spy!"  were 
obviously  in  the  minority.  With  death  looming  so  near, 
with  deadly  danger  to  every  woman  in  the  city  within  sight, 
every  instinct  of  chivalry  toward  the  weak  was  at  its  great- 
est height.  Those  inside  the  cathedral  could  see  that  the 
crowd  was  parting  in  order  to  let  two  women  move  along, 
and  that  the  men  in  the  forefront  elbowed  a  way  for  them 
so  that  they  should  not  be  hindered  on  their  way.  It  was 
the  taller  of  the  two  women  who  had  uttered  the  piteous 
yet  commanding  appeal :  "Let  me  go  to  him ! — take  me  to 
your  leader! — I  must  speak  with  him!" 


THE  LAST   STAND  365 

She  reiterated  that  appeal  now — at  the  south  porch  to 
which  she  had  been  literally  carried  by  the  crowd  outside : 
and  here  suddenly  three  stalwart  men  belonging  to  one  of 
the  city  guilds  took,  as  it  were,  possession  of  her  and  her 
companion  and  with  vigorous  play  of  elbows  and  of  staves 
forged  a  way  for  them  both  right  up  to  the  altar  rails.  Even 
whilst  in  the  west  end  of  the  church  the  enthusiastic  tumult 
around  Peter  Balde  which  this  fresh  incident  had  momen- 
tarily stilled,  arose  with  renewed  vigour,  and  the  young 
artisans  and  apprentices  once  more  took  up  their  cry :  "Re- 
venge! Death  to  all  the  prisoners!"  the  woman,  who  was 
wrapped  up  in  a  long  black  mantle  and  hood,  fell — panting, 
exhausted,  breathless — almost  at  Mark  van  Rycke's  feet  and 
murmured  hoarsely : 

"Five  thousand  troops  are  on  their  way  to  Ghent  .  .  . 
they  will  be  here  within  two  hours  .  .  .  save  yourselves  if 
you  can." 

Her  voice  hardly  rose  above  a  whisper.  Mark  alone 
heard  every  word  she  said ;  he  stooped  and  placing  two  fin- 
gers under  her  chin,  with  a  quick  and  firm  gesture  he  lifted 
up  the  woman's  head,  so  that  her  hood  fell  back  and  the 
light  from  the  east  window  struck  full  upon  her  face  and 
her  golden  hair. 

"I  come  straight  from  the  Kasteel,"  she  said,  more  clearly 
now,  for  she  was  gradually  recovering  her  breath,  "let  your 
friends  kill  me  if  they  will  .  .  .  the  Duke  of  Alva  swore  a 
false  oath  ...  a  messenger  left  even  last  night  for  Dender- 
monde.  .  .  ." 

"How  do  you  know  this?"  queried  Mark  quietly. 

"Crete  and  I  heard  the  Duke  speak  of  it  all  with  my 
father  just  now,"  she  replied.  "He  asked  for  the  truce 
in  order  to  gain  time.  .  .  .  He  hopes  that  the  troops  from 
Dendermonde  will  be  here  before  nightfall  .  .  .  the  guards 


866  LEATHERFACE 

at  the  gate-houses  are  under  arms,  and  three  thousand  men 
are  inside  the  Kasteel  ready  to  rush  out  the  moment  the 
troops  are  in  sight." 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  her  story.  Those  who  stood 
nearest  to  her  passed  it  on  to  their  neighbours,  and  the 
news  travelled  like  wild-fire  from  end  to  end  of  the  church : 
"They  are  on  us !  Five  thousand  Spaniards  from  Dender- 
monde  to  annihilate  us  all !" 

"God  have  mercy  on  our  souls!" 

"God  have  mercy  on  our  women  and  children!" 

Panic  seized  a  great  many  there ;  they  pushed  and  scram- 
bled out  of  the  building,  running  blindly  like  sheep,  and 
spread  the  terrible  news  through  the  streets,  calling  loudly 
to  God  to  save  them  all :  the  panic  very  naturally  spread  to 
the  women  and  children  who  thronged  the  streets  at  this 
hour,  and  to  the  silent  workers  who  had  quietly  continued 
their  work  of  burial.  Soon  all  the  market  squares  were 
filled  with  shrieking  men,  women  and  children  who  ran 
about  aimlessly  with  wild  gestures  and  cries  of  lamentation. 
Those  who  had  kept  indoors  all  to-day — either  fearing  the 
crowds  or  piously  preparing  for  death — came  rushing  out 
to  see  what  new  calamity  was  threatening  them,  or  whether 
the  supreme  hour  had  indeed  struck  for  them  all. 

Inside  the  cathedral  the  cries  of  revenge  were  stilled; 
dulled  was  the  lust  to  kill.  The  immense  danger  which 
had  been  forgotten  for  a  moment  in  that  frantic  thirst  for 
revenge  made  its  deathly  presence  felt  once  more.  Pallid 
faces  and  wide-open,  terror-filled  eyes  were  turned  toward 
the  one  man  whose  personality  seemed  still  to  radiate  the 
one  great  ray  of  hope. 

But  just  for  a  moment  Mark  van  Rycke  seemed  quite 
oblivious  of  that  wave  of  sighs  and  fears  which  tended 
toward  him  now  and  swept  all  thought  of  mutiny  away. 


THE  LAST   STAND  367 

He  was  supporting  Lenora  who  was  gradually  regaining 
strength  and  consciousness:  just  for  a  few  seconds  he 
allowed  tumult  and  terror  to  seethe  unheeded  around  him : 
just  for  those  few  seconds  he  forgot  death  and  danger,  his 
friends,  the  world,  everything  save  that  Lenora  had  come 
to  him  at  the  hour  when  his  heart  yearned  for  her  more 
passionately  than  ever  before,  and  that  she  was  looking  up 
into  his  face  with  eyes  that  told  so  plainly  the  whole  extent 
of  her  love  for  him. 

Only  a  few  seconds,  then  he  handed  her  over  to  the 
gentle  care  of  Father  van  der  Schlicht,  but  as  with  infinite 
gentleness  he  finally  released  himself  from  her  clinging  arms 
he  murmured  in  her  ear:  "God  reward  you,  Madonna! 
With  your  love  as  my  shield,  I  feel  that  I  could  conquer  the 
universe." 

Then  he  faced  the  terror-stricken  crowd  once  more. 


"Burghers  and  artisans  of  Ghent,"  he  called  loudly,  "we 
have  two  hours  before  us.  The  perjured  tyrant  is  bring- 
ing five  thousand  fresh  troops  against  us.  If  by  nightfall 
we  have  not  conquered,  our  city  is  doomed  and  all  of  us  who 
have  survived,  and  all  our  women  and  children  will  be 
slaughtered  like  sheep." 

"To  arms !"  cried  the  leaders :  Jan  van  Migrode  and 
Lievin  van  Deynse,  Pierre  Deynoot  and  the  others. 

"To  arms !"  was  echoed  by  a  goodly  number  of  the  crowd. 

But  a  great  many  were  silent — despair  had  gripped  them 
with  its  icy  talon — the  hopelessness  of  it  all  had  damped 
their  enthusiasm. 


868  LEATHERFACE 

"Five  thousand  fresh  troops,"  they  murmured,  "and  there 
are  less  than  four  thousand  of  us  all  told." 

"We  cannot  conquer,"  came  from  Peter  Balde's  friends 
at  the  west  end  of  the  church,  "let  us  at  least  take  our  re- 
venge !" 

"Yes!    Revenge!     Death  to  the  Walloons!"  they  cried. 

"Revenge!  yes!"  exclaimed  Mark  van  Rycke.  "Let  us 
be  revenged  on  the  liar,  the  tyrant,  the  perjurer,  let  us 
show  him  no  mercy  and  extort  from  him  by  brute  force 
that  which  he  has  refused  us  all  these  years — civil  and  re- 
ligious freedom." 

"Van  Rycke,  thou  art  raving!"  broke  in  the  men  who 
stood  nearest  to  him — some  of  them  his  most  ardent  sup- 
porters. "Alva  by  nightfall  will  have  three  times  the  num- 
bers we  have.  The  gates  will  be  opened  to  his  fresh  troops." 

"We  must  seize  the  Kasteel  and  the  gates  before  then !" 
he  retorted. 

"How  can  we?  We  made  several  assaults  yesterday. 
We  have  not  enough  men." 

"We  have  half  an  hour  wherein  to  increase  their  num- 
bers." 

"Thou  art  raving,"  they  cried. 

"Not  one  able-bodied  man  but  was  fighting  yesterday 
— not  half  their  number  knew  how  to  handle  pike  or  lance, 
musket  or  crossbow." 

"Then  we  must  find  two  thousand  men  who  are  trained 
soldiers  and  know  all  that  there  is  to  know  about  fighting. 
That  would  make  it  a  two  to  one  fight.  Burghers  of  Ghent, 
which  one  of  you  cannot  account  for  two  Spaniards  when 
the  lives  of  your  women  and  your  children  depend  on  the 
strength  of  your  arm?" 

"Two  thousand  men?"  The  cry  came  from  everywhere 
— cry  of  doubt,  of  hope,  of  irony  or  of  defiance. 


THE   LAST   STAND  369 

"How  are  we  to  get  them?  Where  can  we  get  them 
from?" 

"Come  with  me  and  I'll  show  you!"  retorts  Mark  and 
he  immediately  makes  for  the  door. 

The  other  leaders  stick  close  to  him  as  one  man,  as  do 
all  those  who  have  been  standing  near  the  altar  rails  and 
those  who  saw  him  even  when  first  he  turned  to  them  all, 
with  eyes  glowing  with  the  fire  of  the  most  ardent  pa- 
triotism, with  the  determination  to  die  if  need  be,  but  by 
God !  to  try  and  conquer  first ! 

It  was  only  those  who  were  in  the  rear  of  the  crowd  or 
in  the  side  aisles  who  did  not  come  immediately  under  the 
spell  of  that  magnetic  personality,  of  that  burning  enthu- 
siasm which  from  its  lexicon  had  erased  the  word  "Fail- 
ure !"  but  even  they  were  carried  off  their  feet  by  the  human 
wave  which  now  swept  out  of  the  cathedral — by  the  south 
door — bearing  upon  it  the  group  of  rebel  leaders  with 
Mark's  broad  shoulders  and  closely  cropped  head  towering 
above  the  others. 

The  throng  was  soon  swelled  to  huge  proportions  by  all 
those  who  had  been  hanging  about  in  the  precincts  all  the 
afternoon  unable  to  push  their  way  into  the  crowded  edifice. 
The  tumult  and  the  clamour  which  they  made — added  to  the 
cries  of  those  who  were  running  in  terror  through  the  streets 
— made  a  pandemonium  of  sounds  which  was  almost  hellish 
in  its  awful  suggestion  of  terror,  of  confusion  and  of 
misery. 

But  those  who  still  believed  in  the  help  of  God,  those 
in  whom  faith  in  the  justice  of  their  cause  was  allied  with 
the  sublime  determination  of  martyrs  were  content  to  follow 
their  hero  blindly — vaguely  marvelling  what  his  purpose 
could  be — whilst  the  malcontents  in  the  rear,  rallying  round 


870  LEATHERFACE 

Peter  Balde  once  more  began  to  murmur  of  death  and  of 
revenge ! 

Mark  led  the  crowd  across  the  wide  cathedral  square 
to  the  guild-house  of  the  armourers — the  fine  building  with 
the  tall,  crow-step  gables  and  the  magnificent  carved  portico 
to  which  a  double  flight  of  fifteen  stone  steps  and  wrought- 
iron  balustrade  gave  access.  He  ran  up  the  steps  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  portico  fronting  the  crowd.  Every 
one  could  see  him  now,  from  the  remotest  corners  of  the 
square — many  had  invaded  the  houses  round,  and  heads  ap- 
peared at  all  the  windows. 

"Burghers  of  Ghent,"  he  called  aloud,  "we  have  to  con- 
quer or  we  must  die.  There  are  less  than  four  thousand 
of  us  at  this  moment  fit  to  bear  arms  against  Alva's  hordes 
which  still  number  seven.  Five  thousand  more  of  them 
are  on  their  way  to  complete  the  destruction  of  our  city,  to 
murder  our  wives  and  our  children,  and  to  desecrate  our 
homes.  We  want  two  thousand  well-trained  soldiers  to 
oppose  them  and  inflict  on  the  tyrant  such  a  defeat  as  will 
force  him  to  grant  us  all  that  we  fight  for :  Liberty !" 

"How  wilt  do  that,  friend  of  the  leather  mask?"  queried 
some  of  the  men  ironically. 

"How  wilt  find  two  thousand  well-trained  soldiers?" 

"Follow  me,  and  I  will  show  you." 

He  turned  and  went  into  the  building,  the  whole  crowd 
following  him  as  one  man.  The  huge  vaulted  hall  of  the 
guild-house  was  filled  in  every  corner  with  Walloon  pris- 
oners— the  fruit  of  the  first  day's  victory.  They  were  lying 
or  sitting  about  the  floor,  some  of  them  playing  hazard  with 
scraps  of  leather  cut  from  their  belts ;  others  watched  them, 
or  merely  stared  straight  in  front  of  them,  with  a  sullen  look 
of  hopelessness:  they  were  the  ones  who  had  wives  and 
children  at  home,  or  merely  who  had  served  some  time 


THE  LAST  STAND  371 

under  Alva's  banner  and  had  learned  from  him  how  pris- 
oners should  be  treated.  When  the  leaders  of  the  insur- 
rection with  Mark  van  Rycke  at  their  head  made  irruption 
into  the  hall  followed  by  a  tumultuous  throng,  the  Walloons, 
as  if  moved  by  a  blind  instinct,  threw  aside  their  games  and 
all  retreated  to  the  furthest  end  of  the  hall,  like  a  phalanx 
of  frightened  men  who  have  not  even  the  power  to  sell  their 
lives.  Many  of  those  who  had  rushed  in,  in  Mark's  wake, 
were  the  malcontents  whose  temper  Peter  Balde's  hot- 
headed words  had  inflamed.  Awed  by  the  presence  of  their 
leaders  they  still  held  themselves  in  check,  but  the  Wal- 
loons, from  their  place  of  retreat,  crowded  together  and 
terrified,  saw  many  a  glowing  face,  distorted  by  the  passion 
to  kill,  many  an  eye  fixed  upon  them  with  glowering  hatred 
and  an  obvious  longing  for  revenge. 

Then  Mark  called  out : 

"Now  then,  friends :  in  two  hours'  time  the  tyrant  will 
have  twelve  thousand  troops  massed  against  us.  We  have 
two  thousand  well-trained  soldiers  within  our  guild-houses 
who  are  idle  at  this  moment.  Here  are  five  hundred  of  them 
— the  others  are  close  by!  with  their  help  we  can  crush  the 
tyrant — fight  him  till  we  conquer,  and  treat  him  as  he  would 
have  treated  us.  Here  is  your  revenge  for  his  insults !  Get 
your  brothers  to  forswear  their  allegiance  and  to  fight  by 
your  side !" 

A  gasp  went  right  through  the  hall  which  now  was  packed 
closely  with  men — the  five  hundred  Walloon  prisoners  hud- 
dled together  at  one  end,  and  some  four  thousand  men  of 
Ghent  filling  every  corner  of  the  vast  arcaded  hall.  In  the 
very  midst  of  them  all  Mark  van  Rycke  hoisted  up  on  the 
shoulders  of  his  friends — with  gleaming  eyes  and  quivering 
voice — awaited  their  reply. 

The  malcontents  were  the  first  to  make  their  voices  heard : 


372  LEATHERFACE 

"These  traitors,"  they  shouted,  "the  paid  mercenaries  of 
Alva!  Art  crazy,  van  Rycke?" 

"The  Spanish  woman  hath  cajoled  thee!"  some  of  them 
exclaimed  with  a  curse. 

"Or  offered  thee  a  bribe  from  the  tyrant,"  cried  others. 

"We'll  hang  thee  along  with  the  prisoners  if  thou  darest 
to  turn  against  us,"  added  Peter  Balde  spitefully. 

"Hang  me  then,  friends,  an  ye  list,"  he  said  with  a  loud 
laugh,  "but  let  me  speak  while  ye  get  the  gallows  ready. 
Walloons,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  prisoners  who  were 
regarding  him  with  utter  bewilderment,  in  which  past  terror 
still  held  sway,  "ye  are  our  kith  and  kin.  Together  we 
have  groaned  under  the  most  execrable  tyrant  the  world 
has  even  known.  To-day  I  offer  you  the  power  to  strike 
one  blow  at  the  tyrant — a  blow  from  which  he  will  never 
recover — a  blow  which  will  help  you  to  win  that  which 
every  Netherlander  craves  for:  Liberty!  Will  ye  help  us 
to  strike  that  blow  and  cover  yourselves  with  glory?" 

"Aye!  aye!"  came  from  the  Walloons  with  one  stupen- 
dous cry  of  hope  and  of  relief. 

"Will  you  fight  with  us?" 

"Yes!" 

"Die  with  us?" 

"Yes!" 

"For  the  freedom  of  the  Netherlands?" 

"For  Liberty !"  they  cried. 

But  all  the  while  murmurings  were  going  on  among  the 
Flemings.  Their  hatred  of  the  Walloons  who  had  borne 
arms  against  their  own  native  land  and  for  its  subjugation 
under  the  heel  of  an  alien  master  was  greater  almost  than 
their  hatred  against  the  Spaniards. 

"The  Walloons?  Horror!"  they  shouted,  even  whilst 
Mark  was  infusing  some  of  his  own  ardent  enthusiasm  into 


THE  LAST   STAND  373 

the  veins  of  those  five  hundred  prisoners.  "Shame  on 
thee,  van  Rycke !"  whilst  one  man  who  has  remained  name- 
less to  history  cried  out  loudly :  "Traitor !" 

"Aye!  traitor  thou!"  retorted  van  Rycke,  "who  wouldst 
prefer  the  lust  of  killing  to  that  of  victory!" 

"Burghers  of  Ghent,"  he  continued,  "in  the  name  of  our 
sacred  Motherland,  I  entreat  you  release  these  men;  let  me 
have  them  as  soldiers  under  our  banner  ...  let  me  have 
them  as  brothers  to  fight  by  our  side  .  .  .  you  would  shed 
their  blood  and  steep  your  souls  in  crime,  let  them  shed 
theirs  for  Liberty,  and  cover  themselves  with  glory !" 

"Yes !  yes !"  came  from  the  leaders  and  from  the  phalanx 
of  fighting  men  who  stood  closest  to  their  hero. 

"Yes!  yes!  release  them!    Let  them  fight  for  us!" 

The  call  was  taken  back  and  echoed  and  re-echoed  until 
the  high-vaulted  roof  rang  with  the  enthusiastic  shouts. 

"Walloons,  will  you  fight  with  us?"  they  asked. 

"To  the  death!"  replied  the  prisoners. 

"One  country,  one  people,  one  kindred,"  rejoined  Mark 
with  solemn  earnestness,  "henceforth  there  will  be  neither 
Flemings  nor  Walloons,  just  Netherlanders  standing  shoul- 
der to  shoulder  to  crush  the  tyrant  of  us  all!" 

"Netherlanders!  Orange  and  Liberty!"  cried  Walloons 
and  Flemings  in  unison. 

"Give  them  back  their  own  arms,  provosts,"  commanded 
Mark,  "our  untrained  men  have  not  known  how  to  use  them ! 
and  follow  me,  friends!  We  have  not  gathered  our  rein- 
forcements together  yet.  In  half  an  hour  we  shall  have 
two  thousand  brothers  under  our  flag !" 

"Long  live  Leatherface!  To  arms,  brothers!"  were  the 
last  shouts  which  rang  through  the  hall,  ere  Mark  van  Rycke 
led  his  followers  away  to  the  nearest  guild-house  and  then 
to  the  next,  where  two  thousand  Walloon  prisoners  were  by 


374  LEATHERFACE 

the  magic  of  his  patriotism  and  his  enthusiasm  transformed 
into  two  thousand  friends. 


VI 


Once  more  the  roar  of  artillery  and  of  musketry  fills  the 
air.  It  is  long  before  the  evening  Angelus  has  begun  to  ring, 
but  from  far  away  the  news  has  come  to  every  captain  at  the 
city  gates  that  reinforcements  are  on  the  way  from  Dender- 
monde.  No  one  can  respect  a  truce  which  hid  the  blackest 
perfidy  ever  perpetrated  by  a  tyrannical  master  against  a 
brave  people.  As  soon  as  the  news  has  filtrated  into  the 
heart  of  the  city  the  Orangists  rush  to  their  arms,  reinforced 
by  two  thousand  trained  troops;  their  battle  cry  becomes 
triumphant. 

"Netherlands  I  Orange !  and  Liberty !"  resounds  defiantly 
from  end  to  end  of  the  city. 

The  besieging  force  rush  the  Kasteel !  they  sow  the  open 
tract  of  ground  around  the  moat  with  their  heroic  dead; 
again  and  again  they  rush  for  the  breach:  culverins  and 
falconets  upon  the  ramparts  are  useless  after  a  while :  and 
a  shower  of  heavy  stones  falls  upon  the  plucky  assailants. 
There  are  five  hundred  Walloon  bowmen  now  who  know 
how  to  shoot  straight,  and  some  musketeers  who  vie  with 
the  Spaniards  for  precision.  They  cover  the  advance  of  the 
halberdiers  and  the  pikemen,  who  return  to  the  charge  with 
the  enthusiasm  born  of  renewed  hope. 

The  Brugge  gate  has  fallen,  the  Waalpoort  is  in  the  in- 
surgents' hands:  Captain  Serbelloni  at  the  Braepoort  is 
hard  pressed,  and  up  in  the  Meeste  Toren  of  the  Kasteel 
Alva  paces  up  and  down  like  a  caged  tiger. 

"Bracamonte  or  nightfall !"  he  cries  with  desperate  rage, 


THE   LAST   STAND  375 

for  he  cannot  understand  why  the  Dendermonde  troops  are 
detained. 

"Surely  that  rabble  has  not  seized  all  the  gates !" 
Twice  he  has  ordered  a  sortie!  twice  the  moat  has  re- 
ceived a  fresh  shower  of  dead.  The  breach  has  become 
wider:  the  Orangist  halberdiers  are  fighting  foot  by  foot 
up  the  walls.  They  have  succeeded  in  throwing  their  bridge 
made  of  pikes  and  lances  across  the  moat,  and  soon  they 
are  crossing  in  their  hundreds. 

"Heavens  above,  how  come  they  to  be  so  numerous?" 
Captain  de  Avila  has  been  severely  wounded:  three 
younger  captains  have  been  killed.  The  Orangist  falconets 
— a  light  piece  of  artillery  and  not  easy  to  use — works  in- 
cessantly upon  the  breach.  Alva  himself  is  everywhere. 
His  doublet  and  hose  are  torn,  too,  his  breast-plate  and 
tassets  are  riddled  with  arrow-shot;  he  bleeds  profusely 
from  the  hand.  His  face  is  unrecognisable  beneath  a  cov- 
ering of  smoke  and  grime.  Rage  and  fear  have  made  him 
hideous — not  fear  of  personal  danger,  for  to  this  he  is 
wholly  indifferent,  but  fear  of  defeat,  of  humiliation,  of  the 
heavy  reprisals  which  that  contemptible  rabble  will  exact. 

He  insults  his  soldiers  and  threatens  them  in  turn;  he 
snatches  musket  or  crossbow,  directs,  leads,  commands  .  .  . 
and  sees  his  wildest  hopes  shattered  one  by  one. 

The  din  and  confusion  from  the  city  itself  is  hardly  heard 
above  the  awful  pandemonium  which  reigns  in  and  around 
the  besieged  Kasteel.  The  Vleeshhuis  on  the  Schelde  is  a 
mass  of  flames;  the  roof  suddenly  falls  in  with  a  terrific 
crash  which  seems  to  shake  the  very  earth  to  its  depths: 
there  is  not  a  single  window  left  in  the  Meeste-Toren,  and 
the  rooms,  as  well  as  the  yard  below,  are  littered  with  broken 
glass. 


376  LEATHERFACE 

"We  have  no  more  balls  left,  Magnificence,"  reports  the 
captain  in  charge  of  the  artillery.  "What  must  we  do?" 

"Do?"  cries  the  Duke  of  Alva  fiercely.  "Throw  your- 
selves into  the  moat  or  get  the  musketeers  to  turn  their 
muskets  against  you;  for  of  a  certainty  you  will  be  mas- 
sacred within  the  hour." 

Inside  the  city  it  is  hell  let  loose.  Fighting — hand  to 
hand,  pike  to  pike — goes  on  in  every  street,  on  every  bridge, 
under  every  doorway,  aye!  even  beneath  the  cathedral 
porch.  The  doors  of  the  houses  have  all  been  broken  open 
and  men  who  are  wounded  and  exhausted  crawl  under  them 
for  shelter  and  safety.  The  women  and  children  had  all 
been  ordered  to  go  inside  their  own  homes  before  the  first 
battle  cry  of  the  Orangists  rang  out;  a  goodly  number  of 
them,  however,  took  refuge  in  the  churches,  and  there  were 
defended  by  companies  of  Walloons  posted  at  the  doors. 

The  bridges  are  fought  for  inch  by  inch;  when  at  last 
they  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Orangists  they  are  de- 
stroyed one  by  one. 

Hell  let  loose  indeed!  Desperate  men  fighting  for  free- 
dom against  a  tyrant  who  has  never  known  defeat.  The 
evening  Angelus  was  never  rung  on  that  Lord's  Day — the 
feast  of  the  Holy  Redeemer — but  at  the  hour  when  day  first 
fades  into  evening  Mark  van  Rycke — superb,  undaunted 
and  glowing  now  with  the  ardour  of  victory — leads  the 
final  assault  on  the  Kasteel. 

"Netherlanders !    For  Liberty !"  he  cries. 

A  stone  has  hit  his  shoulder,  there  is  a  huge  cut  across 
his  face,  the  sleeve  has  been  torn  right  out  of  his  doublet, 
his  bare  arm  and  the  hand  which  wields  an  unconquered 
sword  gleam  like  metal  in  the  fast  gathering  twilight. 

"To  the  breach!"  he  calls,  and  is  the  first  to  scramble 


THE   LAST   STAND  377 

down  the  declivity  of  the  moat  and  on  to  the  heap  of  ma- 
sonry which  fills  the  moat  here  to  the  top  of  the  bank. 

An  arrow  aimed  at  his  head  pierces  his  right  arm,  a  stone 
hurled  from  above  falls  at  his  feet  and  raises  a  cloud  of  dust 
which  blinds  him,  a  heavy  fragment  hits  him  on  the  head ; 
he  stumbles  and  falls  backwards,  down  to  the  brink  of  the 
moat. 

"Never  mind  me,"  he  calls,  "for  Liberty,  Netherlanders ! 
The  Kasteel  is  yours!  hold  on!" 

He  has  managed  to  hold  on  for  dear  life  to  the  rough 
stones  on  the  declivity,  crawling  along  the  top  of  the  bank 
to  escape  being  trampled  on  by  the  pikemen.  The  latter 
have  a  hot  time  at  the  breach:  the  Spanish  musketeers, 
under  the  Duke  of  Alva's  own  eyes,  are  firing  with  remark- 
able accuracy  and  extraordinary  rapidity,  whilst  from  the 
ramparts  the  shower  of  heavy  stones  makes  deadly  havoc : 
twice  the  Walloons  have  given  ground — they  are  led  by 
Laurence  van  Rycke  now — who  twice  returns  to  the  charge. 

Mark  struggles  to  his  feet:  "Hold  on,  Walloons!  the 
Kasteel  is  ours,"  he  cries. 

And  while  the  Walloons  continue  the  desperate  fighting 
at  the  breach,  he  gathers  together  a  company  of  Flemish 
swordsmen,  the  pick  of  his  little  army,  those  who  have 
stuck  closely  to  him  throughout  the  past  two  days,  who  have 
fought  every  minute,  who  have  been  decimated,  lost  their 
provosts  and  their  captains,  but  have  never  once  cried 
"Halt!"  and  never  thought  of  giving  in. 

A  hundred  or  so  of  them  are  all  that  is  left :  they  carry 
their  sword  in  their  right  hand  and  a  pistol  in  their  left. 
They  follow  Mark  round  the  walls  to  where  the  moat 
melts  into  the  wide  tract  of  morass  which  surrounds  the 
north-east  side  of  the  Kasteel. 


378  LEATHERFACE 

The  shadow  from  the  high  walls  falls  across  the  marshy 
ground,  the  men  move  round  silently  whilst  behind  them  at 
the  breach  and  on  the  bridge  the  noise  of  musketry  and 
falling  masonry  drowns  every  other  sound. 

Now  the  men  halt,  and  still  in  silence  they  strip  to 
their  skins;  then  with  their  pistols  in  their  right  hand 
and  their  sword  between  their  teeth  they  plunge  ankle  deep 
into  the  mud.  They  are  men  of  Ghent  every  one  of  them — 
men  of  the  Low  Countries  who  know  their  morasses  as  mar- 
iners know  the  sea :  they  know  how  to  keep  their  foothold 
in  these  slimy  tracks,  where  strangers  would  inevitably 
be  sucked  into  a  hideous  grave. 

They  make  their  way  to  the  foot  of  the  wall,  they  move 
like  ghosts  now,  and  are  well-nigh  waist  deep  in  the  mud. 
Night  closes  in  rapidly  round  them :  behind  them  the  sky  is 
suffused  with  the  crimson  reflection  of  an  autumnal  sun- 
set. Their  arms,  chests  and  backs  are  shiny  with  sweat, 
their  hot  breath  comes  and  goes  rapidly  with  excitement 
and  the  scent  of  danger  which  hovers  behind  them  in  that 
yawning  morass  and  ahead  of  them  on  the  parapet  of  those 
walls. 

"Victory  waits  for  you,  my  men,"  says  Mark  in  a  com- 
manding voice,  "up  on  yonder  wall.  Whoever  is  for 
Orange  and  for  Liberty,  follow  me !" 

Then  he  starts  to  climb,  and  one  by  one  the  men  follow. 
What  atoms  they  look  up  on  those  high  walls,  crawling, 
creeping,  scrambling,  with  hands  and  knees  and  feet  cling- 
ing to  the  unevenness  in  the  masonry,  or  scraps  of  coarse 
grass  that  give  them  foothold  :  like  ants  crawling  up  a  heap 
— on  they  go — their  bare  backs  reflect  the  crimson  glow  of 
the  sun.  Mark,  their  hero,  leads  the  way,  his  torn  arm  and 
lacerated  shoulder  leave  a  trail  of  blood  upon  the  stones. 


THE   LAST   STAND  379 

At  the  breach  the  Walloons  must  be  hard  pressed,  for 
cries  of  triumph  follow  each  volley  from  the  Spanish  mus- 
ketry. 

"On,  on,  Netherlander !  for  Orange  and  Liberty !" 

Now  Mark  has  reached  the  top :  his  arm  is  over  the  para- 
pet, then  his  knee.  The  look-out  man  has  seen  him:  he 
shoulders  his  musket  to  give  the  alarm,  but  before  he  can 
fire  Mark  is  on  him,  and  three  more  Flemings  now  have 
scrambled  over  the  wall.  This  portion  of  the  Kasteel  is 
never  seriously  guarded :  the  morass  is  thought  to  be  im- 
passable, and  forms  the  only  guard  on  the  northeast  wall; 
but  these  men  of  Ghent  have  conquered  the  morass  and  they 
are  on  the  walls,  and  have  overpowered  the  look-out  men  ere 
these  have  had  time  to  scream. 

Naked,  sweating,  bleeding  at  hands  and  knees,  they  look 
like  wraiths  from  some  inferno  down  below.  They  rush 
down  helter-skelter  into  the  castle  yard.  The  Spanish  mus- 
keteers caught  in  their  rear  whence  they  never  expected  at- 
tack, down  their  weapons  and  run  with  a  mad  Sauve  qui  peut 
to  the  shelter  of  the  Meeste-Toren.  The  Walloons — not 
understanding  what  has  happened — see  the  Spaniards  run- 
ning and  seize  the  lucky  moment.  Laurence  van  Rycke 
leads  them  through  the  breach,  and  they  rush  into  the  yard 
with  pikes  and  halberds  fixed  and  fill  it  suddenly  with  their 
cry  of  triumph:  then  they  fight  their  way  round  to  the 
gatehouse  and  lower  the  bridge,  and  the  Flemings  in  their 
turn  come  pouring  into  the  Kasteel. 

Within  ten  minutes  every  Spaniard  inside  the  Kasteel 
has  laid  down  his  arms :  the  stronghold  is  in  the  hands  of 
the  Orangists,  and  Mark  van  Rycke  up  on  the  iron  balcony 
outside  the  Duke  of  Alva's  council  chamber,  surrounded  by 
his  naked  stalwarts,  demands  the  surrender  of  the  Lieuten- 


380  LEATHERFACE 

ant-Governor  of  the  Netherlands  in  the  name  of  Orange  and 
of  Liberty. 

Then  without  a  sigh  or  a  groan  he  throws  up  his  arms, 
and  those  who  are  nearest  to  him  are  only  just  in  time  to 
catch  him  ere  he  falls. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   HOUR   OF   VICTORY 


To  the  women  and  children  shut  up  in  the  different  churches 
and  in  the  houses  throughout  the  city,  during  those  terrible 
hours  whilst  their  husbands,  brothers,  sons  were  making 
their  last  desperate  stand,  it  was  indeed  hell  let  loose;  for 
while  the  men  were  doing,  they  could  only  wait  and  pray. 
It  was  impossible  for  them  even  to  wander  out  to  try  and 
help  the  wounded  or  to  seek  amongst  the  dead  for  the  one 
dear  face,  the  mirror  of  all  joy  and  happiness.  They  all  sat 
or  knelt  huddled  up  together,  their  children  closely  held  in 
their  arms,  murmuring  those  vague  words  of  comfort,  of 
surmise,  of  hope  and  of  fear  which  come  mechanically  to 
the  lips  when  every  sense  is  lulled  into  a  kind  of  torpor  with 
the  terrible  imminence  of  the  danger  and  the  overwhelming 
power  of  grief. 

The  danger  in  the  houses  was  greater  than  in  the 
churches,  for  everywhere  the  horrible  concussion  of  artil- 
lery and  the  crash  of  falling  masonry  broke  the  windows 
and  shook  the  floors.  But  many  women  have  that  same 
instinct  which  causes  the  beasts  of  the  forests  to  hide  within 
their  lair;  they  feel  that  they  would  rather  see  their  home 
fall  in  about  their  heads,  than  watch  its  destruction  from  a 
safer  distance.  Clemence  van  Rycke  refused  to  leave  her 
house  when  first  Laurence  received  Lenora's  warning  of  the 
impending  catastrophe;  she  refused  to  leave  it  now  when 

381 


382  LEATHERFACE 

her  sons  were  face  to  face  with  death  and  any  moment  a 
stray  cannon  ball  might  bring  the  walls  down  with  a  crash. 

She  sat  in  the  high-backed  chair  in  the  small  withdraw- 
ing-room  where,  less  than  a  week  ago,  the  first  card  was 
played  in  that  desperate  game  for  human  lives  which  was 
finding  its  climax  at  this  hour;  she  sat  quite  still — staring 
into  the  empty  hearth  with  that  stolidity  peculiar  to  these 
women  of  the  North — and  which  is  only  another,  calmer, 
form  of  courage.  The  High-Bailiff,  sullen  and  silent,  sat 
close  to  the  table  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands.  Since 
his  return  from  his  humiliating  errand  this  afternoon  he 
had  not  spoken  a  word  to  anyone — he  believed  that  the 
Orangist  cause  was  doomed,  and  both  his  sons  certain  of 
death.  What  happened  to  him  after  that  he  really  did  not 
care. 

Pierre  and  Jeanne  sat  in  the  hall  together,  quietly  telling 
their  beads.  The  din  outside  was  deafening,  and  the  eve- 
ning hour  was  slowly  creeping  on — day  yielded  to  twilight; 
a  brilliant  sunset  lit  up  for  a  while  the  desolation  of  an 
entire  city,  then  sank  into  a  blood-hued  horizon,  adding  its 
own  lurid  light  to  the  crimson  glow  of  burning  buildings. 

And  as  the  veils  of  night  fell  more  heavily  over  the 
city,  gradually  the  dismal  sounds  of  cannon  and  musketry 
were  stilled.  Pierre  came  in  after  a  while  carrying  a  lamp. 

"Firing  has  ceased,"  he  said,  "men  are  running  down 
the  streets  shouting  that  the  Kasteel  is  in  our  hands  and 
that  the  Duke  of  Alva  has  surrendered  to  Leatherface!" 

He  put  the  lamp  down  and  prepared  to  go,  for  Clemence 
and  the  High-Bailiff  have  made  no  comment  on  the  joyful 
news — perhaps  it  has  failed  to  reach  their  dulled  senses, 
perhaps  they  do  not  believe  it.  At  any  rate,  what  is  vic- 
tory to  them  if  two  brave  sons  have  fallen  for  its  sake? 

But  already  the  cries  through  the  streets  become  more 


THE  HOUR  OF  VICTORY  383 

insistent  and  more  sure;  men  and  women  run  hither  and 
thither  up  and  down  the  Nieuwe  Straat,  and  as  Pierre 
stands  by  the  open  door,  peering  curiously  out  into  the 
gloom,  people  shout  to  him  as  they  rush  by : 

"Van  Rycke  has  seized  the  Kasteel !  The  Duke  of  Alva 
is  a  prisoner  in  our  hands." 

Clemence  hears  the  cries.  She  can  no  longer  doubt  her 
ears.  "Mark?  Laurence?"  she  calls  out.  "Where  are 
they?" 

The  High-Bailiff  rouses  himself  from  his  apathy.  "I  will 
go  to  the  Town  House,"  he  says,  "and  will  be  back  with 
news." 

"News  of  Mark — and  of  Laurence,"  cries  the  mother. 

The  High-Bailiff  goes,  and  she  remains  alone  in  the 
narrow  room,  with  just  the  feeble  light  of  the  lamp  upon 
her  pale  face  and  trembling  hands.  Now  and  then  still, 
right  through  the  night,  a  terrific  crash  shakes  the  house 
to  its  foundations,  or  a  sudden  lurid  light  flares  upwards 
to  the  sky — roofs  are  still  falling  in,  crumbling  ruins  still 
burst  into  flames,  but  firing  and  clash  of  steel  have  ceased, 
and  from  the  various  churches  the  peals  of  bells  send  their 
triumphant  call  through  the  night. 

The  hours  go  by.  It  is  nigh  on  ten  o'clock  now.  The 
High-Bailiff  has  not  yet  returned,  but  Laurence  has  just 
come  back — wounded  and  exhausted  but  full  of  the  glorious 
victory. 

"Where  is  Mark?"  queries  the  mother. 

"Mark  is  hurt  .  .  .  but  he  will  be  here  anon,"  says  the 
boy,  "the  men  have  made  a  stretcher  for  him — he  would 
not  be  tended  at  the  Kasteel — he  begged  to  be  brought  home 
— oh !  mother  dear,  how  we  must  love  him  after  this !" 

Clemence  hastily  gives  orders  that  Messire  Mark's  room 


384  LEATHERFACE 

be  made  ready  for  him  at  once.  Jeanne,  buxom  and  ca- 
pable, is  rendered  supremely  happy  by  this  task. 

"Mother  dear,"  whispers  Laurence,  "next  to  Mark  him- 
self, we  all  owe  our  salvation  to  Lenora." 

He  has  no  time  to  say  more,  even  though  Clemence's  face 
has  hardened  at  mention  of  that  name  which  she  abhors; 
for  Pierre  has  just  come  running  in  breathless  and  trem- 
bling with  excitement. 

"Mevrouw,"  he  stammers,  "it  is  the  noble  lady  .  .  .  the 
Spanish  lady  ...  it  is  ..." 

Before  Laurence  could  further  question  him,  he  has  ut- 
tered a  cry  of  surprise,  which  is  echoed  by  one  of  horror 
from  Clemence.  Lenora  was  standing  under  the  lintel  of 
the  door.  Clemence  rose  from  her  chair  as  if  moved  by  a 
spring  and  stood  up,  rigid,  and  with  arm  raised,  pointing 
straight  to  the  door : 

"Go!"  she  commanded  sternly. 

But  Lenora  advanced  slowly  into  the  room.  She  was 
whiter  than  the  ruff  at  her  throat,  her  black  mantle  hung 
round  her  in  heavy  folds,  but  the  hood  had  fallen  back 
from  her  head,  and  her  golden  hair  with  the  yellow  light 
of  the  lamp  falling  full  upon  it  looked  like  a  gleaming 
aureole  which  made  her  eyes  appear  wonderfully  dark  by 
contrast  and  her  beauty  more  ethereal  than  it  had  been  be- 
fore. Laurence  gazed  on  her  in  speechless  wonder,  but 
Clemence,  full  of  hatred  for  the  woman  whom  she  believed 
to  be  the  author  of  all  the  misery  of  the  past  few  days,  still 
pointed  to  the  door,  and  sternly,  relentlessly,  in  a  voice 
which  quivered  with  the  passion  of  intense  hatred,  she  re- 
iterated her  command : 

"Go!" 

"They  are  bringing  Mark  home,"  said  Lenora  quietly; 
"he  is  wounded  .  .  .  perhaps  to  death  ...  I  could  not  get 


THE  HOUR  OF  VICTORY  385 

to  hear  .  .  .  but  when  he  opens  his  eyes  he  will  ask  for  me. 
I  cannot  go  unless  he  sends  me  away." 

"They  are  bringing  Mark  home,"  assented  the  mother, 
"and  'tis  I  who  will  tend  him.  Never  shall  thy  treacherous 
hand  touch  my  son  .  .  ." 

"Mother,"  broke  in  Laurence  firmly,  "she  is  Mark's  wife 
and  she  has  saved  us  all." 

Clemence  gave  a  loud  sob  and  fell  back  in  her  chair. 
Laurence  tried  in  vain  to  comfort  her.  But  Lenora  waited 
quietly  until  the  worst  of  Clemence's  paroxysm  of  tears  had 
passed  away,  then  she  said  with  the  same  patience  and  gen- 
tleness : 

"I  know,  mevrouw,  that  from  the  first  I  was  an  intruder 
in  your  house.  I,  too,  have  oft  in  the  last  few  miserable 
days  longed  in  vain  that  Mark  and  I  had  never  met.  But 
do  you  not  think,  mevrouw,  that  our  destinies  are  beyond 
our  ken?  that  God  ordains  our  Fate,  and  merely  chooses 
His  tools  where  He  desires?" 

"And  Satan,  too,  chooses  his  tools,"  murmured  Clemence 
through  her  tears.  "Oh  go !  go !  I  beg  of  you  to  go,"  she 
added  with  sudden  passionate  appeal ;  "cannot  you  see  that 
the  sight  of  you  must  be  torture  to  us  all?" 

"Will  you  let  me  stay  until  I  have  seen  Mark?"  said 
Lenora  calmly,  "and  then  I  will  go." 

"I  will  not  let  you  see  him,"  protested  Clemence  with 
the  obstinacy  of  the  weak.  "I  would  not  allow  a  spy  like 
you  to  come  near  him  .  .  .  aye!  a  spy  ...  an  assassin 
mayhap  .  .  .  how  do  I  know  that  you  are  not  an  emissary 
of  our  tyrants?  how  do  I  know  that  beneath  your  cloak  you 
do  not  hold  a  dagger?  ..." 

Laurence  was  trying  his  best  to  pacify  his  mother  and 
throwing  pathetic  looks  of  appeal  to  Lenora  the  while, 
whilst  the  girl  herself  was  bravely  trying  to  hold  herself 


886  LEATHERFACE 

in  check.  But  at  this  last  cruel  taunt  she  uttered  a  cry  of 
pain,  like  a  poor  wild  creature  that  has  been  hurt  to  death. 
In  a  moment  she  was  across  the  room,  down  on  her  knees 
beside  the  old  woman  and  holding  Clemence's  trembling 
hands  imprisoned  in  her  own. 

"Hush !  Hush !"  she  implored  wildly,  "you  must  not  say 
that  .  .  .  you  must  not  .  .  .  Heavens  above,  have  you  not 
realised  that  when  I  acted  as  I  did,  I  did  so  because  I  be- 
lieved God  Himself  had  shown  me  the  way?  You  call  me 
base  and  vile  ...  I  swear  to  you  by  all  that  I  hold  most 
sacred  that  I  would  gladly  die  a  thousand  deaths  to  undo  the 
work  of  the  past  few  days  .  .  .  you  speak  of  an  assassin's 
dagger  ...  I  believed  that  my  cousin  Ramon  was  mur- 
dered .  .  .  foully  and  in  the  dark  ...  by  the  man  who 
was  known  as  Leatherface  .  .  .  my  father  made  me  swear 
that  I  would  avenge  Ramon's  death  .  .  .  what  could  I  do? 
what  could  I  do?  I  believed  that  God  was  guiding  me 
...  I  spied  upon  you,  I  know  ...  I  found  out  your 
secrets  and  gave  them  to  my  father  .  .  .  but  he  had  com- 
manded me  and  I  had  no  one  else  in  the  world  ...  no  one 
.  .  .  only  my  father  .  .  .  and  I  believed  in  him  as  I  believe 
in  God.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  sob,  her  head  fell  forward  upon 
her  hands  and  those  of  the  older  woman,  and  a  pitiable 
moan  of  pain  came  from  her  overburdened  heart.  Laurence, 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  would  have  given  his 
life  to  spare  her  all  this  misery.  But  Clemence  said  noth- 
ing— she  did  not  repulse  the  girl  nor  did  she  draw  her  to 
her  heart;  whether  she  still  mistrusted  her  or  not  it  were 
impossible  to  say,  certain  it  is  that  she  listened,  and  that 
words  of  hatred  no  longer  rose  to  her  lips. 

"You  will  not  let  me  see  Mark,"  continued  Lenora,  try- 
ing to  speak  more  calmly,  "you  are  afraid  that  I  would  go 


THE  HOUR  OF  VICTORY  387 

to  him  as  an  enemy  ...  a  spy  ...  an  assassin.  .  .  .  Ah ! 
you  have  chosen  the  weapon  well  wherewith  to  punish  me! 
An  enemy,  ye  gods! — I  who  would  give  the  last  drop  of 
blood  in  my  veins  to  help  him  at  this  hour,  I  who  love  him 
with  every  fibre  of  my  heart,  with  every  aspiration  of  my 
soul !  .  .  .  Don't  you  understand  ?  cannot  you  understand 
that  he  has  forced  his  way  right  into  my  very  being,  that 
I  have  left  my  people,  my  father,  to  come  to  him  ...  to 
warn  him,  to  help  him  ...  to  be  with  him  in  the  hour  of 
danger.  .  .  .  Let  me  stay.  .  .  .  Let  me  be  with  him! 
.  .  .  Cannot  you  see  that  Love  for  him  is  all  that  I  live  for 
now?  .  .  ." 

She  had  ceased  speaking,  and  over  the  high,  oak-panelled 
room  there  fell  a  silence  which  soon  became  oppressive.  A 
few  moments  ago  while  Lenora  was  pouring  out  her  heart 
in  wild  words  of  passionate  longing,  Clemence  and  Laurence 
had  suddenly  uttered  a  cry — half  of  horror  and  half  of  joy 
— a  cry  which  was  quickly  suppressed  and  which  the  girl 
did  not  hear.  Now  the  tension  on  her  nerves  was  suddenly 
relaxed  and  she  broke  down  utterly — physically  and  men- 
tally she  felt  like  one  who  has  received  a  blow  with  a  pole- 
axe  and  is  only  just  alive — no  longer  sentient,  hardly  suf- 
fering. She  was  crouching  on  the  ground  with  her  head  on 
the  older  woman's  knee,  a  pathetic  picture  of  hopelessness. 
She  felt  indeed  as  if  this  earth  could  hold  no  greater  suffer- 
ing than  what  she  endured  now — to  have  dreamed  for  one 
brief  while  that  she  had  helped  the  man  she  loved  in  the 
hour  of  his  greatest  danger,  and  then  to  be  made  to  feel 
that  she  was  still  an  enemy  in  the  sight  of  all  his  people. 

She  lost  count  of  time,  it  might  have  been  but  a  few 
seconds  that  she  knelt  there  broken-hearted;  it  might  have 
been  a  cycle  of  years ;  the  din  from  the  streets  outside,  the 
bustle  inside  the  house  only  reached  her  ears  like  sounds 


388  LEATHERFACE 

that  come  in  a  dream.  A  kind  of  torpor  had  fallen  over 
the  broken-hearted  girl's  senses  and  mercifully  saved  her 
from  further  pain.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  semi-conscious- 
ness wrapped  her  in  a  kindly  embrace.  Semi-consciousness 
or  a  happy  dream.  She  could  not  tell.  All  that  she  knew 
was  that  suddenly  all  misery  and  all  suffering  fell  away 
from  her ;  that  an  invisible  presence  was  in  the  room  which 
was  like  that  of  the  angel  of  peace,  and  that  strong,  kind 
arms  held  her  closely,  so  that  she  no  longer  felt  that  an 
awful  chasm  yawned  before  her  and  that  she  was  falling 
into  a  hideous  abyss  where  there  was  neither  hope  nor  par- 
don. Of  course  it  must  have  been  a  dream — such  dreams 
as  come  to  the  dying  who  have  suffered  much  and  see  the* 
end  of  all  their  woe  in  a  prescient  glimpse  of  heaven — for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  kind  grey  eyes  which  she  loved  were 
looking  on  her  now,  that  they  smiled  on  her  with  infinite 
tenderness  and  infinite  understanding,  and  that  the  lips 
which  she  had  longed  to  kiss  whispered  gentle,  endearing 
words  in  her  ear. 

"It  is  your  love,  Madonna,  which  led  me  to  victory.  Did 
I  not  say  that  with  it  as  my  shield  I  could  conquer  the  uni- 
verse?" 

"Mark,"  she  murmured,  "you  are  hurt?" 

"Not  much,  dear  heart,"  he  replied  with  that  quaint  laugh 
of  his  which  suddenly  turned  this  delicious  dream  into  ex- 
quisite reality,  "kind  hands  have  tended  me  and  gave  me 
some  clean  clothing.  I  would  have  had  you  in  my  arms 
ere  now,  but  was  too  dirty  an  object  to  appear  before  you." 

Then  the  laughter  died  out  from  his  eyes,  they  became 
intent,  searching,  desperately  anxious. 

"Madonna,"  he  whispered — and  he  who  for  three  days 
had  faced  every  kind  of  danger,  trembled  now  with  appre- 


THE  HOUR  OF  VICTORY  389 

hension — "what  you  said  to  my  mother — a  moment  ago — 
did  you  mean  it?" 

"Your  love,  Mark,"  she  murmured  in  reply,  "is  all  that  I 
live  for  now." 

Then  he  folded  her  in  his  arms  once  more. 

"Mother,  dear,"  he  said,  "you  must  love  her  too.  My 
whole  happiness  hangs  upon  her  kiss." 


EPILOGUE 

MANY  there  are  who  hold  to  the  belief  that  the  death  of 
Alva  would  have  saved  the  unfortunate  Netherlander 
many  more  months  of  woe  and  oppression  at  his  hands, 
and  that  mayhap  it  would  have  deterred  the  royal  despot 
over  in  Madrid  from  further  acts  of  perfidious  tyranny. 

Therefore  Mark  van  Rycke — the  responsible  leader  of  the 
successful  insurrection  of  Ghent — has  often  been  blamed  for 
his  leniency  to  a  man  who — if  he  had  been  victorious — > 
would  not  have  spared  a  single  woman  or  child  in  the  city. 

With  the  right  and  wrongs  of  that  contention  this  chron- 
icle hath  no  concern.  Mark  van  Rycke  led  the  men  of 
Ghent  to  victory,  and  having  done  that  he  fell  sick  from 
wounds  and  exhaustion,  and  after  being  hastily  tended  by 
his  friends,  he  was  taken  home  where  for  many  days  he 
hovered  between  life  and  death. 

It  was  the  civic  dignitaries — the  High-Bailiff,  the  Alder- 
men and  Sheriffs  of  the  Keure  who  assumed  the  respon- 
sibility of  dealing  with  the  tyrant,  and  they  remained  true 
apparently  to  their  principles  of  conciliation  and  of  loyalty, 
for  within  two  days  of  their  heroic  and  desperate  stand  for 
liberty  and  while  the  ruins  of  their  beautiful  city  were  still 
smouldering,  the  men  of  Ghent  had  the  mortification  of 
seeing  the  Duke  of  Alva  ride — humiliated  but  unscathed — 
out  of  the  town. 

Just  as  fifty  years  ago  the  town  of  Bruges  held  the  Arch- 
duke Maximilian,  King  of  the  Romans,  a  prisoner  till  he 
ordered  the  withdrawal  of  all  foreign  troops  from  their 
gates,  so  did  the  men  of  Ghent  now  exact  the  same  un- 
dertaking from  the  Duke  of  Alva. 

390 


EPILOGUE  391 

For  the  moment  Ghent  was  freed  from  the  immediate 
danger  of  annihilation,  and  the  departure  of  Alva  from 
Belgium  less  than  a  year  later  saved  her  perhaps  altogether 
from  the  fate  of  many  of  her  sister  cities;  certain  it  is  that 
the  High-Bailiff  and  the  older  burghers  extracted  from  their 
prisoners — among  whom  was  senor  de  Vargas  and  several 
members  of  the  Blood  Council — concessions  and  privileges 
for  which  they  had  clamoured  in  vain  for  half  a  century; 
but  beyond  that  the  tyrant  was  allowed  to  go  free,  and 
against  this  decision  of  their  magistrates  and  their  Griet 
Mannen  the  heroes  of  the  insurrection  did  not  raise  a  pro- 
test. Perhaps  they  had  suffered  too  much  to  thirst  for  ac- 
tive revenge. 


fTHE  END 


7 


A 000755219     3 


